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THE  STOOPING  LADY 


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THE  STOOPING  LADY 


By 
MAURICE    HEWLETT 

Author  of  "  The  Forest  Lovers," 

"Richard  Yea  and  Nay," 

etc.,  etc. 


NEW    YORK 
DODD,    MEAD    AND    COMPANY 

1907 


Copyright,  1 906-1 90T 
By  Dodd,  Mead  and  Compaxy 

Published  September,  1907 


LIBKAKY 
KNIVERSrrY  OF  CALIFORIS 
SANTA  BARBATtA 


TO 

H.  B.  H. 
FROM  WHOM  IT  CAME 


CONTENTS 


lAPTEE  PAGE 

I     In  Which  We  Place  the  Heroine  1 

II     In  Which  We  Bring  Her  Into  Play      10 

III     In  Which,  if  You  Please,  You  May 

Contemplate  Her  Family  21 

rV  In  Which  We  Hear  prom  Her,  and 
OF  Her — AND  Presently  a  Cry  of 
the  Heart  33 

V     In  Which,  AT  Last,  We  Get  the  Facts     46 
VI     In  Which  Lord  Rodono  Mishandles 

THE  Bag  and  Mr.  Ranald  the  Cat      54? 
Vll     Which  Presents  the  View  of  Miss 

Harriet  Moon  65 

VIII     In  Which  Miss  Chambre  Veils  Her 

Blushes  14* 

IX     Which  Brings  Lord  Morfa  to  Peter- 
sham 86 
X     In  Which  We  See  Family  Magnani- 
mous                                                           96 
XI     Which  Forfeits  Mr.  Touchett  the 

Entree  104* 

XII     Which  Transports  Us  to  La  Mancha  114 
XIII     In  Which  We  Raise  Our  Eyebrows       131 
XIV     In  Which  We  Have  Two  Noble  Suit- 
ors AT  THE  Gates  142 
XV     In  Which  We  Stand  at  the  Window    151 
XVI     In  Which  Sir  George  Coigne  Hears 

the  Call  of  Family  159 


VUl 

CHAPTER 

XVII 

XVIII 

XIX 

XX 
XXI 

XXII 

XXIII 

XXIV 

XXV 

XXVI 

XXVII 

XXVIII 

XXIX 

XXX 

XXXI 

XXXII 

XXXIII 

XXXIV 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Which    Expounds    a    New    Use    for 

One's  Mistress  171 

In   Which   We    Hear    Scandal   and 

Can  Judge  for  Ourselves  185 

In  Which  We  Are  Deep  in  Another 

Romantic  Affair  194 

Which  Displays  a  Master-Stroke        208 
Which  Contains  a  Curious  Confes- 
sion 218 
In  Which  Sir  George  Is  Distracted 

BY  His  Heart-Strings  228 

Which  Prepares  240 

In  Which  She  Seals  Her  Indentures  247 
In  Which  Her  Call  Comes  258 

Which  Is  of  Psyche  in  the  Garden      272 
Which    Deals    Chiefly    with     Mr. 

Ranald's  Opinions  281 

Which  Reports  a  Westminster  Meet- 
ing 290 
Ordeal  by  Battle  304 
Which  Attacks  in  Flank  320 
Which  Mrs.  George  Fox  Understands  331 
In  Which  the  Law  Intervenes  339 
Pillory  and  Tumbril  348 
In  Which  the  Hon.  Captain  Ranald 
Epilogises                                                361 


THE  STOOPING  LADY 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  WHICH   WE    PLACE   THE   HEEOINE 

/^N  the  21st  of  January,  1809,  Miss  Hermia  Mary 
^-^  Chambre  and  her  brother,  Ensign  Richard — as  the 
Countess  of  Morfa's  chariot  brought  them  for  the  first 
time  to  Caryll  House,  St.  James's,  within  those  great 
gates,  into  that  gravelled  court  where  the  statue  of  a 
late  earl  stood  and  admonished  London* — on  this  da}', 
and  on  the  very  threshold  of  this  Sanctuary  of  the  Con- 
stitution, Miss  Chambre,  I  say,  and  her  brother,  a  beau- 
tiful and  healthy  girl  of  twenty  and  a  fine  young  man 
of  rather  less,  were  witnesses  to  a  disagreeable  incident, 

*  As  this  monument  has  now  been  removed,  I  feel  bound  to  record 
the  inscription  which  it  bore,  long  though  it  be. 

ON 

This  Spot 

where  formerly  stood 

CARYLL  HOUSE 

and  where 

on  the  Fourteenth  of  October 

1688 

The  Right  Honourable 

Rupert 

Fourth  Earl  of  Morfa  Viscount  "Wrest 

Baron  Rhos  and  Ruegg  K.  G.,  Lord  Lieutenant 

and  Gustos  Rotulorum  of  Flintshire  etc.  etc. 

Returned  Public  Thanksgiving 

to 

Almighty  God 

For  the  Declaration  of  His  Majesty 


2  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

a  vulgar  brawl  and  scuffle,  calling  for  the  interference  of 
the  police. 

Orphans,  Irish  bj  a  deplorable  father's  side,  and  there- 
fore in  crying  need  of  grace,  this  was  the  grace  they 
got.  Recalled  within  the  pale  of  Family — that  Family 
which  their  poor  mother  had  forsworn — they  were  to  see 
Family  put  to  the  blush.  A  rout  of  satyrs,  a  boors' 
comedy,  in  which  an  incensed  young  giant  of  the  lower 
classes  was  hero  and  two  tipsy  gentlemen  the  sport  of 
his  heroics ;  in  which  Jacob  Jacobs,  elderly,  gold-laced 
guardian  of  the  gates,  was  choragus ;  in  which  footmen 
in  canary  yellow  and  powder,  a  groom  of  the  chambers, 
a  butler  hovering  for  the  carriage,  took  their  cues  from 
him,  and  wailed,  lifted  their  eyes  to  Heaven,  wagged 
their  polls,  called  for  constables,  as  he  guided  them  with 
agitated  hands — what  a  welcome  to  Britain !  Beyond 
them  and  around  them — with  a  ring  scrupulously  kept 


King  William  III 

That  truly  Constitutional  Monarch 

and 

FATHER  of  his  COUNTRY 

This  Statue 

Has  been  erected  by  his  admiring 

Descendants  to  record  for  the 

Elevation  and  Instruction 

of 

MANKIND 

His  Patriotism  his  Piety 

and 

His  Prescience. 

The  lapidary  has,  in  a  pardonable  enthusiasm,  perhaps  magnified  his 

Lordship's  act.     What  he  is  stated  to  have  done  upon  the  occasion 

recorded  is  to  have  slapped  his  thigh  and  said,  "Thank  God,  we've 

dished  the  Tories!" 


WE  PLACE  THE  HEROINE  3 

for  the  "turn-up" — surged  and  thundered  the  mob,  in- 
tent only  on  the  play,  with  raucous  cries  directed  solely 
to  that,  with  eyes  afire  for  the  rules  of  the  great  game. 
"Time !  Time !"  "Let  my  lord  get  his  wind — Now  they're 
at  it — a  mill,  a  mill ! — ding-dong !"  "What,  you'll  rush 
it,  my  lord?  By  God,  that's  stopped  him !"  "Six  to  one 
on  the  butcher — I  lay."  "Keep  the  ring,  gentlemen, 
please — fobbed  him  fairly — gone  to  grass  !"  It  was  in- 
deed at  this  crowning  moment,  when  one  gentleman  lay 
bleeding  on  his  back,  and  the  other,  slighter  gentleman, 
"spitfiring  like  a  tomcat,"  it  was  afterwards  averred, 
struggled  fruitlessly  to  escape  the  enemy's  grasp  of 
his  coat-collar — that  the  family  chariot  of  the  Morfas 
loomed  heavily  at  the  far  end  of  Cleveland  Row  and, 
advancing,  displayed  to  the  eyes  of  our  young  lady 
and  her  brother  one  of  the  sights  of  London — as  they 
no  doubt  supposed  it.  Hardly  seeing  what,  certainly, 
was  not  fit  to  be  seen,  no  doubt  for  a  second  of  time 
those  startled  eyes  of  hers  gazed  upon  the  havoc,  and 
upon  the  flushed  young  Saxon,  bareheaded  and  fair- 
headed,  the  hero  of  it — a  noticeable  young  man  per- 
forming noticeable  feats  with  gentlemen.  No  doubt 
but  that  she  too  was  by  him  gazed  upon  in  her  turn, 
and  that  that  second  of  time  seemed  by  seconds  too  long. 
These  encounters  of  the  eyes  stay  by  one,  though  in  this 
case  there  were  sights  to  come.  Within  the  gates  lay 
another — a  dead  horse,  weltering  from  the  issue  of  a  ter- 
rible wound ;  whereat  indeed  the  bright-eyed  jNIiss  Cham- 


4  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

bre  shrieked  and  clung  to  her  brother,  and  he,  after  one 
sagacious  look,  said,  "Staked,  Hermy,"  and  then,  "Poor 
devil.     So  that  was  the  meaning  of  it." 

And  thus  1809,  thus  London,  thus  England  and  Caryll 
House  arrayed  themselves  to  greet  two  young  Carylls 
(by  the  mother's  side)  very  newly  from  Ireland.  A  mob 
at  the  Gates !  A  dead  and  mangled  horse  within  the  Pre- 
cincts !  A  tipsy  gentleman  scrufFed  by  a  butcher's  man ! 
The  scene  was  significant.  As  the  French  would  say — 
1809! 

The  arrival  of  the  carriage  brought  order  back  to  some 
scattered  wits.  The  canary-breeched  footmen  aligned 
in  the  vestibule,  the  groom  of  the  chambers  mounted 
the  inner  steps,  the  butler  hovered  for  shawls.  Ser- 
vants of  the  Chambre  pair — Gibson,  a  red-cheeked 
maid,  and  Simcox,  a  red-haired  valet,  descended  from 
the  rumble ;  Ensign  Chambre,  tall,  slim,  and  lady-faced, 
^ot  out  and  handed  out  his  sister.  "Here  we  are, 
my  dear — Caryll  House.  What  a  shindy,  eh?  Let's 
get  out  of  it  all."     But  that  was  not  possible  to  her. 

"Oh,  Dick,  the  poor  horse — no,  no !  We  must  find  out 
something.  We  can't  possibly — "  She  turned  to  the 
butler,  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  carriage,  collecting 
wraps.  "What  has  happened.''  Who  killed  the  horse.'' 
Who  were  those  people.''  Please  to  let  me  know."  The 
butler's  head  and  shoulders  came  from  the  interior, 
deprecating  inquiry;  his  hand  humoured  his  chin.  He 
really  could  not  say ;  it  was  hardly  for  him  to  say.    Per- 


WE  PLACE  THE  HEROINE  5 

haps  her  ladyship — but  he  would  inquire.  Before  he 
could  reach  that  last  refuge  of  Secretaries  of  State  and 
butlers  alike,  Miss  Chambre  had  turned  to  the  powdered 
array.  Did  any  one  see  what  it  was?  Was  any  one 
present?  Surely  something  was  known?  The  giants 
stiffened  and  stared ;  one  was  seen  to  blush,  and  another 
betrayed,  by  a  slight  twitching  of  the  fingers,  that  this 
was  the  most  awkward  moment  of  his  life.  Miss  Cham- 
bre's  eyes,  which  were  grey  and  very  clear,  insisted  on 
response ;  they  had  to  be  met.  And  so  confused  mutter- 
ings  were  heard,  as  one  giant  looked  at  the  other,  and  deep 
called  unto  deep.  She  caught  the  words — "His  lord- 
ship"— "young  Vernour" — "thirty-guinea  'oss" — "no 
take-off  for  an  'oss,"  and  "lashed  'isself  into  strips.'* 
She  was  young,  she  was  impatient,  and  used  to  obedience. 
She  stamped  her  foot. 

"It's  very  extraordinary  that  nobody  seems  able  to 
speak  here.  I  don't  understand  it  at  all."  Then  she 
turned  flashing  upon  the  careworn  butler.  "Whose  is 
that  horse?" 

"I  believe — they  tell  me,  miss — it  is  young  Vernour's 
horse." 

"Oh!    And  who  is  he?"     The  butler  looked  sideways. 

"He's  the  butcher,  miss." 

"Oh,  then  that  was  he — that  young  man " 

"Yes,  miss." 

"And  who  were  the  other  two,  the  two  cowards  attack- 
ing him?" 


6  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

But  the  butler's  agony  was  now  for  all  to  see. 
"I  really — it's  not  for  me,  miss — but  I'll  inquire." 
"Oh!  Inquire!"  She  stamped  again.  Her  brother 
was  appealed  to.  Dick  must  go  and  find  out;  she  in- 
sisted on  knowing  what  was  the  matter;  and  while  Dick 
stalked  out  to  do  her  commands  she  chose  to  wait,  tap- 
ping her  foot  in  the  vestibule,  quite  regardless  of  the 
canary-coloured  giants  about  her,  of  hovering  butler 
or  groom  of  the  chambers  at  his  post.  She  had  had  no 
great  experience  of  these  gentry ;  she  had  lived  in  Ireland 
all  her  twenty  years,  and  certainly  her  poor,  pretty, 
helpless  mother.  Lady  Hermione,  whose  runaway  match 
with  Colonel  Chambre — Handsome  Dick,  Dick  of  the 
Gallop,  and  what-not — had  been  productive  of  little 
comfort  besides  these  two  children,  certainly  her  mother 
had  not  been  able  to  show  her  any  such  state.  Why, 
except  for  McFinn — coachman  in  boots  by  day,  foot- 
man in  slippers  by  night — and  the  maids — three  of  them 
— there  had  been  no  indoor  service  at  Chambre's  Court. 
But  there  may  have  been  traditions,  and,  of  course,  there 
was  blood,  to  go  upon.  She  had  her  Norman  preroga- 
tive, sa  haulte  franchise,  by  the  mother's  side ;  and  these 
stockinged  emblems  were  so  much  furniture  to  her — 
now  that  she  had  found  out  that  they  could  not  pretend 
to  be  men.  Not  so  to  Gibson,  her  red-cheeked  maid — 
but  apparitors,  wielders  of  the  torture  of  silence  and  sus- 
pense. Gibson  told  her  young  mistress  afterwards  what 
she  had  endured  in  those  awful  moments  of  arrival.     "If 


WE  PLACE  THE  HEROINE  7 

one  of  them  yallows,  Miss  Hermy,  had  advanced  a  leg 
or  put  forth  a  finger,  I  should  have  died  with  the  scream 
in  my  throat — so  lifelike  they  was."  One  sees  what  she 
meant. 

When  Dick  did  return,  he  looked  bothered. 

"I  can't  make  much  of  it  out.  They  all  talk  at  once. 
There  was  a  row  with  a  butcher  about  his  horse — good 
horse,  too — I  could  see  that  for  myself.  Somebody's 
been  riding  it,  and  staked  it.  Some  gentleman,  they 
say — or,  at  least,  he  thought  so."  Here  he  grew  grave, 
reserved,  made  himself  as  old  as  he  knew.  "They  do  say 
— but  I  don't  know  anything  about  that.  The  horse  is 
dead,  the  fellow's  gone  to  gaol.  The  two  gentlemen  will 
prosecute.  Their  servants  are  with  them,  I  believe.  At 
any  rate,  they've  been  sent  for.  They  weren't  seriously 
hurt,  either  of  them.  I  say,  Hermy,  I  do  think  we  might 
go  in — now,  3'ou  know." 

But  Miss  Hermia  had  opened  her  ej'es,  and  wouldn't 
budge. 

"To  prosecute,  my  dear !  To  prosecute  the  butcher ! 
How  can  they  prosecute  him  for  staking  his  own  horse  ?" 

"You  don't  understand  me.  He  didn't  stake  the  horse. 
I  thought  I  had  made  that  clear." 

She  did  not  choose  to  see.  "Very  well,  then,  I  suppose 
they  will  prosecute  him  for  owning  a  horse  at  all.  Is 
that  what  you  mean?" 

Dick  put  on  his  Ensign's  manner — his  last  refuge 
against  this  sort  of  attack.     "Why,  you  see,  my  love,  it 


8  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

is  rather  an  awkward  business.  The  fellow  began  it. 
Of  course,  the  whole  affair  might  have  been  settled  if  he 
had  taken  it  reasonably." 

"Reasonably !"  Really,  for  a  girl  only  two  years  his 
senior,  she  caught  him  up.  "How  do  you  take  a  staked 
horse  reasonably.''" 

"My  dear  child,  this  fellow  had  hold  of  a  gentleman — 
of  a  peer,  they  say — by  the  collar,  and  gave  the  other 
no  end  of  a  smack  on  the  nose.  Well,  you  know,  you 
can't  have  that,  can  you .?" 

Miss  Chambre,  after  staring  at  her  brother  for  a  try- 
ing moment,  turned  her  back  upon  him,  and  walked  up 
the  array  to  the  house.  She  threw  him  a  Parthian  shot. 
"You  can  have  what  you  deserve — and  be  called  a  gentle- 
man— and  not  take  it  like  a  gentleman — or  so  it  seems." 

Dick  followed  her  nervously.  He  knew  his  sister,  but 
he  knew  more.  He  knew  the  names  of  the  two  gentle- 
men ;  she  must  never  get  at  them,  whatever  happened. 
But  he  had  his  birthright  in  him,  too.  "One  was  a  peer, 
remember — and  the  other  a  peer's  eldest  son.  I  can't 
say  any  more.  And  they  were  both  drunk — you  ought 
to  remember  that."     She  marched  on. 

"Pooh !"  she  threw  at  him,  "I  don't  believe  you.  And 
if  it's  true,  it  makes  it  all  horrible." 

"They  were  drunk  as  owls,"  says  Ensign  Dick. 

"As  pigs,  you  mean,"  flung  back  the  lady. 

The  groom  of  the  chambers  mutely  implored — his  long 
white  face  was  a  study  in  the  tragic:  that  of  a  just  man 


WE  PLACE  THE  HEROINE  9 

contending  with  circumstances.  He  turned  the  handle 
of  a  door.  "Miss  Chambre,  my  lady.  And  Ensign 
Chambre." 

At  the  further  end  of  a  long  and  dimly  lighted  room, 
full  of  pictures  and  cut-glass  chandeliers  and  high- 
backed  chairs,  there  was  to  be  seen  Grandmamma  Morfa, 
the  withered,  the  eagle-faced,  crutch  in  hand,  enthroned 
before  a  sea-coal  fire. 

Miss  Chambre  stepped  lightly  forward.  She  walked 
as  young  women  do  who  have  been  free  of  moor  and 
weather  all  their  lives,  carrying  her  head  high.  "How  do 
you  do,  Grandmamma  Morfa  ?^^  she  said,  and  took  up  the 
white  old  hand  to  kiss. 

"The  better  for  the  sight  of  3'ou,  my  dear,"  said  the 
great  lady,  like  the  wolf  in  the  fable. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  WHICH  WE  BRING  HER  INTO  PLAY 

]\/r  ISS  HERMIA  Lad  the  better  of  her  brother  in  wits 
-*-  -^as  well  as  in  years,  and  at  tongue-work  he  had  never 
pretended  to  touch  her,  even  when  he  had  been  freer  than 
he  was  now — with  no  Ensign's  commission  burning  in  his 
breast-pocket  and  hobbling  every  step  he  took,  so  to 
speak,  with  reminded  dignity.  Lady  INIorfa  may  not 
have  been  entertained,  but  could  not  fail  to  have  been 
instructed  by  her  granddaughter's  vivacious  narrative 
of  the  voyage  from  Kilbride.  She  said  little,  not  being 
herself  ever  very  free  of  speech,  but  she  listened  to  every 
word,  and  at  the  end  of  it,  as  will  be  seen  at  the  end  of 
this  chapter,  proved  that  she  had  learned  something.  It 
would  not  have  been  Miss  Hermia's  fault  if  she  had  not. 
It  had  been,  then,  a  stormy  crossing,  but  a  quick  one, 
with  a  following  wind.  She  had  not  been  ill  in  the  least, 
had  been  on  deck  all  the  time,  in  oilskins  lent  her  by  the 
captain ;  only  her  hair  had  got  wet — nothing  else.  But 
that  had  been  drenched — like  seaweed — and  had  had  to 
be  dried  before  the  inn  fire  at  Holyhead.  That  place 
had  been  full  of  people  drinking  brandy-and- water ; 
they,  too,  had  been  very  kind,  making  room  for  her  while 
she  knelt  and  dried  her  hair.     They  offered  her  brandy- 


WE  BRING  HER  INTO  PLAY  11 

and-water;  she  got  some  bread  and  milk.  SImcox  and 
poor,  dear  Gibson  had  been  dreadfully  ill — prostrate! 
Simcox  said  that  never,  in  his  born  days— but  she  here 
perceived  that  Lady  Morfa  took  no  interest  in  Simcox  or 
his  days,  and  pursued  her  own  adventures.  What  did 
grandmamma  think  .f^  It  was  rather  a  wet  morning,  but 
not  very ;  so  she  and  Dick  rode  outside  the  coach,  and  put 
the  servants  inside.  It  had  been  the  greatest  fun — they 
saw  the  dawn,  but  not  in  England  as  they  had  hoped,  for 
they  were  still  in  Wales.  The  coachman  was  very  kind. 
He  told  the  guard  that  Dick  was  "a  bit  o'  blood,"  and 
the  guard  had  said,  "Bless  your  life,  that  liquor's  bound 
to  show" — wasn't  that  fun?  It  was  three  in  the  morn- 
ing when  they  were  off,  and  not  a  soul  out  of  bed,  once 
past  the  inn-yard. 

She  touched  but  lightly  on  the  landscape,  flashed  upon 
by  the  coach-lamps  and  swiftly  blotted  out ;  slumbrous 
villages,  shaly  banks,  lanes  endless  and  tortuous,  long 
ascents  and  breakneck  gallops  down  into  blackness, 
gaunt  finger-posts  to  hidden  ways — a  chance-caught 
"To  Chester,"  another  "To  Carnarvon,"  and  then  "To 
Ruthin,"  where  lay,  she  knew,  JNIorfa  ]Mawr,  the  cradle 
and  chief  seat  of  all  the  Carylls — dripping  trees,  rivers, 
narrow  bridges.  She  had  lived  through  the  dark  upon 
these,  but  they  were  not  for  her  tongue  to  tell  of.  Nor 
how,  when  the  five  dark  hours  had  been  past,  and  with  the 
pale  winter  sun  striving  with  the  rain,  they  had  looked  out 
upon  the  heart  of  Wales — and  there  was  Ogwen  Lake, 


12  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

all  black  under  the  storm-cloud,  and  all  that  litter  and 
slide  so  shining  wet  under  the  splintered  mountain:  a 
quarry  of  slate!  Not  for  her  untried  speech  all  this. 
She  spoke  rather  of  their  fellow  passengers,  and  as  one 
who  knew  them  well ;  the  young  usher  for  Rugby,  with 
a  painful  catch  in  his  breath,  who  had  shown  her  the  por- 
trait of  his  mother;  the  sea-captain  homing  to  wife  and 
child  at  Wem ;  the  wine-merchant  whose  head  had  nodded 
on  to  her  shoulder,  and  whose  apologies  had  been  so 
frequent  and  profound;  and,  lastly,  and  with  fervour, 
she  told  of  Mr.  Aloysius  Banks.  Kind!  He  had  been 
more  than  kind — he  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  be  kind 
— and  had  accompanied  them  to  London. 

"Do  you  mean,"  asked  Lady  Morfa  here,  "that  this — 
ah,  person — was  going  out  of  his  way  when  he  came  on 
to  London?" 

Miss  Hermia  was  not  so  innocent  as  to  fail  to  under- 
stand what  Lady  Morfa  meant  by  a  "person." 

"He's  not  a  person — what  you  would  call  a  person — 
grandmamma,  at  all.  And,  of  course,  he  lives  in  Lon- 
don. I  am  surprised  that  you  don't  know  him — indeed, 
he  told  me  that  you  did.  He  had  met  you  at  Lady 
Crowland's,  he  said.  He  was  able  to  do  you  some  tri- 
fling service.  You  bowed.  There  can  be  no  mistake. 
Mr.  Aloysius  Banks,  an  Edinburgh  Reviewer." 

Grandmamma  may  have  meant  to  name  Mr.  Banks  a 
personage,  but  did  not  look  as  if  she  had.  She  denied 
his  acquaintance.    Miss  Chambre  sketched  him  freehand. 


WE  BRING  HER  INTO  PLAY  13 

Ke  was  extraordinarily  ugly,  and  seemed  to  feel  the 
cold.  His  e3'ebrows  looked  very  odd  when  the  rime  was 
thick  upon  them.  He  wore  a  plaid  scarf  so  tightly 
round  his  neck  that  Dick  had  said,  and  she  could  not  but 
agree,  that  he  looked  like  a  skull  tied  up  in  crossbones. 
He  had  been  snappish  at  first,  but  they  had  done  their 
best  to  make  him  happier,  and  she  believed  they  had  suc- 
ceeded. Nobody  could  have  been  kinder  than  he.  He 
was  a  poet  and  critic — most  severe — but  that  was  forced 
upon  him.  He  was  a  Whig,  of  course ;  and  he  said  that 
all  the  Ministerial  poets,  and,  above  all,  the  Jacobin 
poets,  were  so  deplorably  bad  that  he  felt  it  his  duty  to 
be  stringent.  When,  said  he,  you  find  principle  as  lax  as 
numbers,  morals  and  sense  alike  subverted ;  when  your 
rhymester  is  as  trite  as  he  is  obscure,  adds  factiousness  to 
dulness,  and  turns  all  to  blasphemous  uses — it  is  no  time 
for  lovers  of  order  to  be  silent.  He  had  been  charged,  he 
said,  but  unjustly  charged,  with  having  caused  one  3^oung 
man  to  die  of  mortification,  or  (as  he  hoped  it  might  be 
said)  of  remorse.  IMr.  Banks  added  that  he  hoped  that 
he  should  never  shrink  from  his  duty  to  the  Constitution, 
however  painful  that  duty  might  be.  He  had  the  pro- 
foundest  respect  for  the  Constitution  and  for  great 
families.  Anecdotes!  He  had  one  for  every  fine 
house  he  passed.  There  was  Sir  Tancarville 
Tancarville's :  he  had  married  his  cook.  Stokeheaton's 
mansion  reminded  him  of  a  very  sad  affair — how  young 
Lord  Wilmer  had  called  out  Colonel  Despard,  and  how 


U  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

the  Colonel  had  shot  him;  Mr.  Banks  had  to  be  excused 
the  reason.  Then  there  had  been  Lady  Diana  Meon,  who 
ran  away  with 

"And  we  saw  Wolseley  Hall,  grandmamma,  where  papa 
had  often  stayed,  with  Sir  Charles.  They  saw  the  fall 
of  the  Bastille  together,  you  know — but  I  forgot !  You 
didn't  agree  with  papa  about  that.  Nor  did  Mr.  Banks, 
by  any  means."  Lady  Morfa  considered  that  that  was 
the  best  thing  she  had  heard  of  Mr.  Banks  so  far ;  but  she 
did  not  say  so.  She  was  learning  this  free-spoken 
granddaughter  of  hers. 

On  the  whole,  it  seemed  that  Mr.  Banks  was  at  his  best 
upon  the  subject  of  noble  birth  and  what  he  called 
"FraRchise."  What  had  he  meant  by  that,  precisely.'' 
Miss  Chambre  had  asked  him.  He  had  explained. 
Franchise  was  the  liberty  which  blood  conferred,  and,  in 
these  days,  place,  since  the  King,  we  must  not  forget, 
was  the  Fountain  of  Honour,  and  could  ennoble  by  a 
look.  So  franchise  was  liberty — the  liberty  to  be  free, 
and  the  liberty  to  rule  a  free  people — a  harmony,  not  a 
discord  of  ideas.  "I  found  that  difficult,"  said  Miss 
Hermia.  "I  asked  him  what  gave  the  liberty  to  rule,  and 
he  said  Place ;  what  gave  Place,  and  he  said  Blood."  It 
was  puzzling,  because  there  was  another  kind  of  Fran- 
chise— a  parliamentary  kind,  which  Mr.  Banks  refused 
to  discuss,  which  seemed  to  make  him  angry,  which,  he 
said,  had  nothing  to  do  with  true  Franchise.  But  let 
grandmamma  consider.     A  free  people  had  the  freedom 


WE  BRING  HER  INTO  PLAY  15 

to  be  ruled;  Blood  and  Place  had  the  freedom  to  rule." 
She  frowned  now  as  she  thought  of  it,  but  grandmamma 
refuaed  to  help*  "Bits  of  blood,"  were  they,  had  said  the 
coachman  to  the  guard.  And  then  she  remembered  the 
butcher's  horse.     There  had  been  blood  there,  too. 

All  that  apart,  she  owned  that  she  had  found  Mr. 
Banks's  eulogy  of  the  Carylls  rather  fulsome.  "He  knew 
who  we  were  without  our  having  to  tell  him.  He  said 
that  the  country  still  mourned  grandpapa,  and  that 
Uncle  Roddy  was  very  high  in  the  confidence  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales.  And  then  he  spoke  of  you,  grand- 
mamma, and  of  Uncle  Badlesmere,  and  of  all  your 
family.  He  said  that  the  Botetorts  and  the  Carylls  bore 
the  only  shields  that  remained  unsullied  in  England.  I 
told  him  that  I  thought  that  impossible,  and  that  if  it 
were  true  he  ought  not  to  say  it  to  us.  Perhaps  I  ought 
not  to  have  gone  so  far — Dick  thought  not.  But  he  was 
very  charming  in  what  he  said  about  you." 

Lady  Morf  a  took  Mr.  Banks's  charms  as  best  she  might. 
She  went  so  far  as  to  ask  what  the  gentleman  had  been 
pleased  to  say  of  herself,  and  accepted  with  grim 
acquiescence  a  tribute  to  "that  combination  in  her  lady- 
ship's person  of  exalted  birth  and  enlightened  principles 
which  set  England,  our  happy  country,  apart  from  all 
European  nations."  If  her  granddaughter  did  not 
report  him  exactly,  that  is  what  he  had  said.  Miss 
Chambre  remembered  also  how  he  had  praised  Mr.  Fox, 
the  Dukes  of  Bedford  and  Devonshire,  Lord  Lansdo^vne, 


16  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Lords  Grey  and  Grenville.  Lord  Crowland  he  was  proud 
to  call  his  Maecenas.  All  this  should  have  endeared  him 
to  Lady  Morf a,  for  all  these  were  her  allies ;  but  she  was 
staggered  with  what  followed.  Miss  Hermia,  owning 
that  she  knew  nothing  of  these  gentlemen,  had  asked  him 
concerning  others — "friends  of  papa's" — with  less  happy 
results.  "When  I  asked  him,"  she  said,  "if  he  had 
known  Lord  Edward,  he  said  'Good  God!'  and  had  no 
more  to  say." 

"I  don't  wonder,"  said  Lady  Morfa,  and,  like  Mr. 
Banks,  said  no  more;  for  Lord  Edward  could  only  be 
Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald,  whom  she  was  accustomed  to 
describe  as  "that  little  renegade  who  married  the 
Frenchwoman,"  and  who  signified  for  her  the  three 
things  in  this  world  most  detestable — enthusiasm,  slack- 
ness of  fibre,  and  treachery.  She  kept  a  keen  ear  for 
Miss  Hermia's  chatter  after  that ;  but  all  went  passably 
well  until  the  end. 

"And  so,  grandmamma,  we  got  to  London  at  last,  and 
met  the  carriage,  and  oh !  I  must  tell  you  of  a  most  dis- 
agreeable thing — which  I  think  you  ought  to  know 
about." 

Out  it  came,  the  whole  of  it,  and  Lady  Morfa  bristled 
and  stiff"ened  as  she  heard.  A  staked  horse !  The  battle 
at  the  gates!  The  ring,  the  prostrate  gentleman. 
"Dick  tells  me  he  was  a  gentleman,  but  I  can't  believe 
that.  He  was  tipsy,  and  one  of  two.  The  other  I 
couldn't  see,  because  the  butcher  had  him  by  the  coat- 


WE  BRING  HER  INTO  PLAY  17 

collar;  he  was  tipsy,  too,  and,  Dick  says,  a  peer.  He 
was  using  very  bad  language,  but  couldn't  possibly  get 
away.  The  butcher  was  a  splendid  young  man."  And 
then  she  added,  "His  eyes  give  him  that  proud  look.  I 
mean  that  they  see  you,  and  see  that  you  are  nothing." 

"You  are  talking  sad  rubbish,  my  dear,"  said  Lady 
Morfa  with  decision.  "What's  all  this.''  I've  heard 
nothing  of  it." 

Dick  Chambre,  very  red  and  uncomfortable,  put  in  his 
word.  "I  don't  think  it  need  disturb  you,  ma'am.  It 
was  some  vulgar  attack.  They  sent  for  the  constables, 
and,  no  doubt,  it's  all  over.     I  think  Hermy  was  upset." 

If  she  was,  it  became  her.  It  gave  her  starry  eyes  and 
a  colour  of  flame ;  it  lifted  her  head  and  gave  a  thrill  to 
her  voice.  "No  one  can  bear  injustice,"  she  said.  "It's 
horrible.  Oh,  grandmamma,  what  do  you  think.'' 
They've  taken  the  man  to  prison  because  they  staked  his 
horse.  Why,  papa  would  have —  Oh,  grandmamma, 
what  can  we  do.-^" 

Lady  Morfa,  after  blinking  and  working  her  tightened 
lips,  put  an  end  to  the  conversation.  "We  can  do  a  num- 
ber of  things,  my  dear,  and  one  of  them  is  to  refrain 
from  discussing  subjects  of  which  we  know  little  or  noth- 
ing. If  you  will  kindly  ring  the  bell,  I'll  have  you  shown 
your  rooms,  I'm  an  old  woman,  as  j-ou  see,  and  not 
above  owning  when  I'm  tired.    Ring  the  bell,  my  child." 

Miss  Hermia  was  taken  in  convoy  by  the  housekeeper; 
but  Ensign  Dick  remained  to  show  his  commission,  for 


18  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

which  he  had  to  thank  his  grandmother,  to  talk  of  the 
Army  of  Portugal,  which  he  was  soon  to  join,  of  the 
levee,  of  uniforms,  of  his  horses,  and  other  glories  of 
youth.  He  was  a  simple,  well-spoken  lad,  much  to  her 
ladyship's  taste.  She  liked  young  men  to  be  good-look- 
ing, to  call  her  "ma'am,"  and  to  agree  with  her.  These 
were  Gary  11  qualities  ;  and  she  could  manage  the  Gary  lis, 
or,  at  least,  had  never  met  with  one  whom  she  could  not. 
Dick  Ghambre  proved  no  exception,  and  with  his  help 
she  flattered  herself  that  she  could  deal  with  the  girl. 
The  girl  was  Ghambre — that  was  evident ;  but  Lady 
Morfa  meant  to  do  her  duty  by  her.  What  was  this  wild 
story  of  the  butcher's  horse?  What  had  Dick  to  say 
about  that.?  The  unhappy  Dick  had  much  to  say  which 
nothing  would  have  induced  him  to  reveal.  That  she 
guessed;  therefore,  after  letting  him  flounder  and  blush 
into  coherence,  she  gave  him  his  orders.  "My  dear  boy, 
it's  clear  that  you  have  great  good  sense.  These  vulgar 
things  are  not  to  be  wondered  at  in  the  time  we  live  in ; 
insubordination,  however,  must  be  checked.  I  remember 
that  I  speak  to  a  soldier.  Your  sister  is  excited  because 
she  is  tired.  To-morrow  she  will  have  forgotten  all 
about  it.  Give  her  my  love,  and  say  that  I  shall  excuse 
her  at  dinner  to-night.  Let  her  have  her  sleep  out — she 
shan't  be  called  in  the  morning.  And  let  us  have  no  more 
talk  of  fighting  butchers  and  their  horses.  Truly,  a 
'splendid'  young  man !  Remember,  Richard,  we  must 
have  no  more  wild  speeches.     And  th€  less  of  your  Mr. 


WE  BRING  HER  INTO  PLAY  19 

Aloysius  Banks  the  better.  Progers  will  show  you  your 
quarters  if  you  ring.  You  will  find  your  man,  no 
doubt."  So  away  with  Ensign  Richard  and  his  com- 
mission. 

But  her  ladyship  had  more  to  do.  After  a  time  of  bleak 
survey  of  the  fire,  she  rang  her  handbell.  Progers,  the 
careworn  butler,  the  velvet-footed,  came  in. 

"Ah,  Progers,"  said  the  lady,  "has  his  lordship 
returned.?" 

"Yes,  my  lady.  His  lordship  have  returned.  His  lord- 
ship have  asked  me  to  say  that  he  is  feeling  himself 
indisposed,  and  will  not  dine." 

"No,  no.  I  will  see  his  lordship  presently.  Has  Dr. 
Noring  been  sent  for.^*" 

"Dr.  Noring  is  here,  my  lady.  He  is  with  his 
lordship." 

"Very  well.  That  will  do,  I  think.  And— ah, 
Progers " 

"My  lady.?" 

"There  was,  I  understand,  a  disagreeable  scene  this 
afternoon.     Vernour,  the  butcher,  was  concerned  in  it," 

"Yes,  my  lady."    Progers  of  the  furrowed  brow ! 

"Let  orders  be  given  that  Vernour  is  not  to  call  again 
for  custom.  Let  that  be  done  at  once.  And  let  there 
be  no  talking  about  this,  if  you  please.  Miss  Chambre 
was  greatly  upset  by  the  affair.  I  don't  wish  anything 
said  to  Miss  Chambre — or  to  anybody  in  the  house. 
Understand  that,  Progers." 


20  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"Very  good,  my  lady." 

Dr.  Noring  reported  that  the  young  Earl  of  Morfa 
was  suffering  from  a  severe  shock  to  the  nervous  system, 
and  must  have  rest.  A  low  diet  could  do  no  harm ;  but 
rest  was  imperative. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  WHICH,  IP  YOU  PLEASE,  YOU  MAY  CONTEMPLATE   HER 

FAMILY 

T  T  is  possible  that  the  annals  of  the  politicians  may  cn- 
-*■  shrine  the  person  of  a  stauncher  Whig  than  that  of 
Jane  (born  Botetort)  Countess  of  Morfa,  but  if  they 
do  I  have  never  heard  of  it.  It  is  highly  improbable ;  she 
was  not  only  all  that  a  Whig  should  be,  she  was  all  that 
he  could  ever  be  and  remain  a  man.  She  was  a  Whig  of 
the  Whigs,  dotting  all  the  i's  in  the  sacred  words  British 
Constitution;  she  was  Whiggism  incarnate,  for  she  added 
character  to  principle,  and  what  she  professed,  that  she 
was.  Where  Mr.  Fox  had  doubted,  she  had  affirmed; 
where  Lord  Crowland  shook  his  head,  she  shook  her  fist ; 
where  my  Lord  Grey  was  tempted  to  enquire,  she  held  her 
nose.  Thus  she  was  the  sublimity  of  the  Whig  position, 
which  was  not  one  of  compromise,  but  of  despair.  For 
the  Whigs  took  kings  into  favour,  not  because  they  were 
estimable,  but  because  without  them  the  families  could 
not  govern;  and  though  many  of  tliem  may  have  be- 
lieved it,  and  some  may  have  said  it,  I  know  of  none  to 
whom  it  was  so  much  bone  of  the  bone  as  to  Lady  Morfa, 
of  none  who  said  it  so  stoutly  and  lived  it  so  hard  as  she 
did. 
She  divided  mankind,  for  all  purposes,  into  two  classes. 


22  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Either  you  were  Family,  or  you  were  a  person.  Collec- 
tively, you  were  still  Family,  unless  you  were  the  Mob. 
It's  true  she  allowed,  for  convenience,  of  a  third  possible 
class  in  which  either  of  the  categories  might  be  tem- 
porarily embraced.  If,  being  Family,  you  happened  to 
earn  your  living  by  sword  or  pen,  she  might,  in  her 
gentler  moments,  refer  to  you  as  of  the  Executive;  if, 
being  of  the  Mob,  you  should  raise  your  head  by  such 
means  into  her  notice,  she  would  undoubtedly — for  she 
was  as  incisive  as  she  was  frank — call  you  a  Hireling. 
Here,  then,  was  a  sort  of  limbo  for  Society,  into  which 
fell,  naturally.  Kings,  Archbishops,  Secretaries  of  State, 
and  others — admittedly  a  makeshift,  and  due  to  the  com- 
plexity which  the  French  Revolution  had  introduced, 
whereby  a  Mr.  Canning  and  a  Lord  Castlereagh  might 
labour  side  by  side. 

In  1809,  when  we  first  make  her  acquaintance,  she  was 
in  her  seventy-second  year,  and  the  twentieth  of  her 
widowhood;  she  had  married  all  her  daughters — one  of 
them,  Miss  Chambre's  mother,  had,  to  be  sure,  done  that 
for  herself — and  was  still  queen  of  Caryll  House,  St. 
James's,  and  of  all  the  Caryll  Castles  and  demesnes, 
until  such  time  as  Earl  Roderick,  her  only  son  and  her 
last-born,  should  marry  into  Family  and  reign  alone. 
In  person  she  was  thin,  not  tall,  and  very  much  like  an 
eagle,  with  a  nose  sharp,  bony,  and  prominent,  with  eyes 
black,  hard,  and  deeply  set,  which  were  capable  of  un- 
swerving, unblinking,   and  rather   terrible  scrutiny  of 


THE  FAMILY  23 

persons  and  things.  She  could  blink  them  too,  bitterly, 
when  she  chose ;  and  her  lips,  which  were  thin,  had  a  way 
of  twitching  very  elfin  to  behold.  Lastly,  she  stooped 
to  a  crutch,  called  you  "My  dear,"  said  exactly  what  she 
pleased,  never  concealed  her  opinions,  and  was  absolutely 
candid  as  to  her  tastes,  which  were  coarse,  and  her  abhor- 
rences,  which  were  three.  I  have  mentioned  them  before : 
enthusiasm,  slackness  of  fibre,  and  treachery'to  Family. 
These  things  really  disgusted,  and  one  of  them  really 
shocked  her.  Have  I  spoken  of  her  religion?  She  was 
punctilious  in  that  matter,  for  she  was,  of  course,  an 
Erastian.     It  was  a  question  of  drill. 

Her  parties  were  renowned,  not  for  their  brillianc}-  of 
talk — she  smelt  enthusiasm  in  good  talkers — but  for 
their  severe  exclusion  of  all  but  the  purest  of  the  pure. 
The  Executive  were  on  their  best  behaviour  there,  you 
may  well  believe.  It  was  said  that  in  certain  lights  a 
faint  but  exquisite  tinge  of  azure  was  to  be  seen  float- 
ing over  her  thronged  assemblies,  like  a  bloom  upon  a 
budding  coppice ;  a  shot  effect,  an  irradiancc,  an  aural 
shimmer  of  blue.  I  can  easily  believe  it,  but  (since  even 
Lady  Morfa  was  human  and  her  parties  must  be  slightly 
tainted  with  that  failing),  I  prefer  another  similitude, 
which  has  been  happily  used  of  them.  Imagine  a  fish- 
pond, one  of  those  ovals  of  dark,  still,  and  lilicd  water, 
marble-rimmed,  which  j^ou  find  in  old  gardens  of  statues, 
cypress  walks,  and  deep  turf.  Just  as  in  that  the  carp 
vary  in  perfection ;  while  some  are  of  the  ruddiest  gold, 


24!  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

some  unfortunately  have  silver  splashes,  and  some  again 
are  so  scored  with  the  paler  metal  that  the  gold  and  silver 
seem  to  have  changed  places,  and  some  even  have  no  gold 
visible,  but  show  all  of  silver — yet  all  are  undoubted 
gold-fish,  by  an  ancestry  which  cannot  be  denied:  so  it 
was  in  Lady  Morfa's  drawing-rooms,  that  though  all 
her  guests  were  Whigs  by  origin  and  men  of  Family 
by  grace,*  some  were  speckled  with  radicalism,  and 
some  desperate  players  speckled  only  now  with  the  rem- 
nants of  Whiggery,  and  some  had  so  basely  handled 
themselves  that,  but  for  species,  no  sign  remained. 
Among  these  variegated  ones  are  some  whom  we  must 
reckon  with.  We  may  pass  Lord  Henry  Petty  by,  al- 
though he  must  be  a  INIarquis  before  our  tale  is  done. 
But  there  swam  my  Lord  Sandgate,  all  gleaming  silver, 
there  another  white  renegade.  Captain  the  Honourable 
Robert  Ranald  of  the  Navy — Member  for  Westminster, 
but  so  finely  descended  and  so  much  a  man  that  his  pedi- 
gree and  (what  was  odd)  his  virtues  tinged  his  coat  in  her 
Ladyship's  eyes.  There,  too,  much  at  his  ease,  came 
and  went  Lord  Rodono,  parcce  gilt,  but  saved  by  a  fine 
gift  of  raillery.  At  all  of  these,  and  at  others  like  them, 
Avhom  to  name  would  be  tedious — Mcrvyn  Touchett, 
Pink  Mordaunt,  Gell-Gell,  Lord  Drillstone,  and  their 
friends — the  Lady  of  Caryll  House  looked  through  rose- 
coloured  glasses,  which  lent  them  charitable  pretence. 
But  those  pale  fish  beyond  them — your  baronets  Wolse- 
ley  and  Burdett,  your  Squires  Whitbread  and  Colonels 


THE  FAMILY  25 

Wardle — "my  dear,  those  are  impossible  persons.  I  will 
not  know  them,  and  there's  an  end.  As  well  ask  me  to 
have  in  Cobbett — that  man — or  your  Major  Cartwright 
or  precious  Parson  Tooke."  Them  you  never,  never 
saw  in  the  unruffled  pool,  where  great  Cavendish,  great 
Russell,  great  Crowland,  and  great  Vane  oared  the  deep 
on  golden  fins.  To  be  sure,  she  made  an  exception — 
your  rire — in  favour  of  Lord  Stanhope,  the  big-nosed, 
brawny,  long-armed  peer — Citizen  Stanhope  of  his  own 
dubbing.  Him  she  let  in,  as  Samson  of  old  was  led,  to 
make  sport.  "Citizen.?"  she  had  said,  "yes,  indeed,  that 
is  what  the  poor  man  has  made  of  himself.  Have  him, 
by  all  means."  She  called  him  Citizen  before  he  could 
call  her  one,  and  never  called  him  anything  else  until 
he  sickened,  and  loathed  the  term.  What  is  more,  she 
treated  him  as  she  would  have  treated  an  alderman  or  a 
royal  duke — as  he  knew  very  well. 

I  find  that  I  have  very  little  to  say  of  the  young  Earl 
Roderick,  her  son.  Born  late,  he  had  grown  up  sickly 
and  passably  vicious.  He  was  twenty-five  years  old. 
Equerry  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  a  Knight  of  the  Garter, 
and  unpopular.  Up  to  the  time  when  this  tale  begins 
he  had  done  nothing  commendable,  and  a  good  deal  of 
which  I  shall  be  charitably  silent.  He  had  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  niggardly,  and  Mr.  Sheridan  is  said  to 
have  hated  him.  The  two  things  are  by  no  means  in- 
compatible, and  are  very  likely  connected. 

But  I  want  to  direct  your  attention  to  the  Chambre 


26  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

connection,  which  is  of  serious  moment  to  you  who  read, 
and  was  the  heaviest  blow  ever  dealt  at  the  doughty 
Countess  of  Morfa.  INIiss  Chambre  was  in  this  position : 
Lad}'  Morfa  was  her  grandmother  and  practically  her 
owner  for  a  term  of  years  yet  to  come.  Colonel 
Chambre,  her  father,  had  never  had  a  shilling,  not  even 
on  the  day  when  he  ran  off  with  Lady  Hermione  Caryll, 
her  mother,  made  a  Scots  marriage  of  it,  and  prepared 
to  be  happy ;  but  that  Lady  Hermione  had  had  some 
thousand  pounds  a  year  in  her  own  right.  When  Colonel 
Chambre  died,  in  1807,  his  widow  was  not  long  in  follow- 
ing him — and  yet  she  was  not  soon  enough  for  his  chil- 
dren's liberties.  For  between  his  death  and  her  own,  my 
Lady  Morfa  interposed  a  dictatorship,  spending  a  year 
in  Ireland  for  the  purpose,  with  the  result  that 
Lady  Hermione  disposed  of  her  thousand  as  follows. 
Dick,  her  son,  was  to  have  half  when  he  came  of  age.  If 
he  died  unmarried,  his  portion  was  to  be  added  to  the 
other.  But  Hermia's  share  and  contingency  were  not  to 
be  hers  until  she  was  five-and-twenty,  or  married  with 
the  consent  of  her  grandmother.  If  she  died  under  that 
age,  or  married  after  the  fashion  of  her  mother,  her  five 
hundred,  or  whatever  more  she  might  have,  was  to  return 
into  the  coffers  of  the  Carylls,  whence  it  came.  The 
money  was  paltry  enough,  but  the  tutorship  was  not — 
and  that  was  what  Lady  Morfa  was  after.  She  did  not 
intend,  if  she  could  help  it,  that  Hermione's  girl  should 
grow  up  either  a  pure  fool  like  her  mother,  or  a  fool 


THE  FAJMILY  27 

adulterated  with  knave,  as  she  was  convinced  Colonel 
Chambre,  her  father,  must  have  been.  He  was  a  man 
whom  she  as  heartily  despised  as  she  heartily  hated; 
and  certainly,  from  her  point  of  view,  the  Colonel's 
record  was  not  comfortable.  He  was  both  enthusiastic 
and  a  traitor  to  Family.  He  could  only  have  had  one 
other  vice — and  Lady  Hermione  had  that,  poor  soul ! 

Colonel  Richard  Chambre — Dick,  Handsome  Dick, 
Firebrand  Dick,  Dick  of  the  Gallop,  all  these  things 
they  called,  who  loved,  him — was  a  cadet  of  a  good  Eng- 
lish house  settled  in  Ireland  in  the  planting  times.  As  a 
boy  he  had  read  as  he  rode,  as  a  young  man  in  the  — th 
Foot,  if  he  had  a  sword  in  his  right  hand  he  had  a  book 
in  his  left.  Yet  he  served  with  distinction  in  the  Ameri- 
can War,  got  his  steps  rapidly  and  with  dash,  and  might 
have  risen  high  but  for  two  things.  At  Charleston  he 
came  to  love  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald,  and  it  was  a  fault 
(I  suppose)  of  his  nature  to  desire  to  be  that  which  he 
loved.  Hence  he  found  himself  sympathising  with  the 
rebels,  and  as  good  as  a  rebel  himself.  Tom  Paine  did 
the  rest  for  him.  There  was  no  half-way  house  for  the 
likes  of  Handsome  Dick ;  he  broke  his  sword,  he  threw  up 
his  commission ;  they  say  that  it  was  Lord  Edward — with 
a  bright  eye  on  France — who  persuaded  him  not  to  bear 
arms  against  his  own  blood  in  a  quarrel  whose  issue  was 
certain,  but  to  keep  them  unrusted,  rather,  against  the 
time  comino-.  But  for  that  he  would  either  have  settled 
in  America  or  died  for  the  Americans.     As  things  were, 


28  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

he  returned  to  Europe  with  his  beloved  friend,  with  him 
in  due  course  went  into  France,  improved  acquaintance 
with  Tom,  and  shared  in  the  great  design  of  re-making 
Britain  as  the  Rights  of  Man  demanded.  His  EngHsh 
adventures  were  not  happy,  as  revolutionaries  conceive 
of  happiness.  The  last  king  was  not  hanged  in  the  en- 
trails of  the  last  priest ;  no  blood  was  shed,  but  quantities 
of  ink ;  even  the  honours  of  an  indictment  for  sedition 
were  denied  him.  He  consorted  with  Godwin,  and  found 
him  squalid,  with  Mr.  Tooke,  and  thought  him  unpar- 
donably  dry.  However,  from  that  gentleman's  house  at 
Wimbledon  he  did  concoct  a  private  adventure,  with 
danger  in  it,  excitement,  and,  as  it  turned  out,  with  fruit. 
From  Wimbledon  it  was  that  he  rode  into  London  on  a 
still  summer's  night  in  1788,  tethered  his  horse,  scaled 
the  wall  of  Caryll  House  garden,  and  affixed  to  it  a  rope- 
ladder.  At  the  stroke  of  midnight  pretty  Lady  Hermi- 
one,  all  blushes,  terrors,  and  fluttered  heart,  fell 
panting  into  his  arms.  He  had  met  her,  it  seems,  but 
three  times  in  his  life,  had  loved  her  at  sight,  and  found 
means  to  make  her  love  him.  He  helped  her  over  the 
wall,  put  her  up  behind  him,  and  galloped  away  to  Finch- 
ley  and  an  awaiting  carriage.  Dick  of  the  Gallop — this 
feat  was  the  occasion  of  the  nickname.  At  Carstairs,  in 
Scotland,  he  proclaimed  her  his  before  God  and  the  inn- 
keeper's family ;  he  took  her  to  Roscommon  and  his  house 
of  Chambre's  Court ;  and  next  year  Hermia  Mary  was 
born  into  the  world — a  daughter  of  debate — one  hun- 


THE  FAMILY  29 

dred  and  one  years  to  a  day  since  Rupert  Earl  of  IMorfa 
had  thanked  God  pubhcly  for  the  British  Constitution. 

The  subsequent  feats  of  Galloping  Dick  did  nothing  to 
reconcile  him  to  his  mother-in-law.  He  went  back  to 
France,  and  (Lady  Morfa  believed)  procured  the  fall  of 
the  Bastille ;  he  showed  himself  in  England  in  1794,  and 
was  only  saved  from  the  High  Treason  trials  of  that  year 
by  the  fact  that  he  was  full  of  schemes  for  a  rebellion  in 
Ireland.  The  failure  of  that,  its  tragic  absurdity,  its 
treacheries,  hidings,  women's  clothes,  and  bedside  arrests, 
above  all,  the  death  in  delirium  of  the  adored  and  ador- 
able little  incendiary  at  the  heart  of  it,  went  near  to 
breaking  Chambre's  own  heart,  and  quite  broke  his  spirit. 
He  galloped  no  more,  but  cultivated  his  few  acres,  bred 
foxhounds,  and  gave  his  children  of  his  best.  Hermia 
Mary  (as  he  always  called  her)  was  his  favourite;  I 
believe  he  told  her  everything  he  had  ever  done — and  he 
might  well  do  that,  for  he  had  no  reason  to  blush  for  his 
misdeeds.  He  had  ever  been  too  ardent  to  have  time  for 
rakehelling;  he  ate  vegetables,  and  drank  water  with 
his  wine.  Towards  the  end  of  his  life  he  took  to 
prophecy,  stroking  his  girl's  hair  or  playing  gently  with 
her  hand.  He  had  hopes  that  she  would  in  her  person 
justify  all  that  he  had  loved  and  served  in  the  world. 
Should  she,  the  child  of  Privilege,  show  Privilege  power- 
less, before  the  Rights  of  Man  !  That  was  his  prophecy. 
"I  see  you  a  woman  grown,  my  child ;  I  see  you  a  lover. 
Manhood — womanhood — and  the  call  of  the  heart  be- 


30  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

tween ;  you  will  never  be  false  to  that.  Love  worthily, 
love  well,  love  the  best.  Love  truth,  love  justice,  my 
Hermia  Mary ;  hate  like  the  devil  those  three  children  of 
his — Cant,  False  Privilege,  and  Treachery  to  the  Truth 
that  is  in  you."  Pretty  sentiments  these  for  a  man  to  die 
in,  connected  by  marriage  with  the  House  of  Caryll! 
Pretty  for  Jane  Countess  of  Morfa  to  see  the  fire  of  them 
still  smouldering  in  his  girl's  grey  eyes.  But  there  it 
was,  though  guarded,  when  that  beaked  great  lady  came 
to  Roscommon  in  1807. 

She  came  in  her  chariot  and  four,  like  an  eagle  that  had 
scented  carrion  from  afar  and  had  swooped  directly  the 
watchers  had  departed.  Pretty,  tearful  Lady  Hermione 
— if  she  were  a  watcher — had  resigned  without  a 
struggle  to  the  rape  of  her  nestlings ;  young  Dick,  a 
more  delicate  image  of  his  father,  fair-haired,  slim, 
and  falcon-like  as  he  had  been,  swallowed  his  ensigncy 
and  became  a  noble  Whig;  but  Hermia  Mary  kept  an 
open  mind.  She,  too,  had  something  of  her  father — 
his  hot  colouring  and  his  dark  grey  eyes — but  in  all  else 
resembled  the  Carylls.  She  had  their  dark  tresses,  their 
easy  carriage,  bold  voice,  and  imperious  judg- 
ments ;  she  was  afraid  of  nobody,  and  always 
spoke  the  truth.  All  these  things  commended 
her  to  her  grandmother,  who  loved  her  order,  loved 
beauty,  and  loved  courage,  even  when  displayed  at  her 
own  expense.  This  girl  fulfilled  all  her  loves ;  she  had 
remarkable  beauty  of  face  and  person,  she  showed  Family 


THE  FAIMILY  31 

to  the  finger-tips ;  and  she  had  wit.  Lady  IMorf a  left 
Ireland  full  of  promises ;  Dick  was  to  have  his  ensigncy 
— that  would  get  rid  of  Dick ;  but  Hermia  Mar}^  was  to 
be  brought  out  in  London,  a  Caryll  beauty  and  a  Caryll 
heiress — she  would  see  to  that.  The  times  were  hopeful. 
The  old  king  was  known  to  be  incurable,  the  Prince 
would  be  Regent.  His  friends  were  her  friends.  There 
would  be  a  Whig  administration,  and — here  we  see  the 
finger  of  Providence — a  child  of  the  House  of  Caryll 
would  again  be  Maid  of  Honour,  as  she  had  not  been 
since  1689.  Thus  Lady  Morfa  conceived  that  the  Gods 
of  England  would  dispose  and  govern  the  hearts  of 
princes  whom  the  Whigs  had  set  up.  One  might  credit 
ihem  with  more  grandiose  designs ;  but  there  is  a  story 
of  an  Eastern  mystic  which  is  to  the  point. 

This  enthusiast,  they  say,  chose  out  for  himself  a  place 
in  the  desert  under  a  palm-tree;  and  lying  there  supine 
and  entirely  naked,  concentrated  his  sight  upon  his  own 
navel,  and  at  last,  after  some  thirty  years'  toil,  had  the 
reward  of  seeing  the  whole  wheeling  order  of  the  Cosmos 
— all  Time  and  all  Existence — centred  and  revolving 
about  that  fixed  point.  And  whether  your  Whig  states- 
man hide  himself  behind  the  ramparts  of  the  British 
Constitution  and  its  spiky  frieze  of  privilege,  or  within 
the  walls  and  double  gates  of  Caryll  House,  St.  James's, 
he  is  apt  to  mistake  Providence  for  the  gardener,  and  to 
see  in  the  soft-footed  messengers  of  his  chambers  Angels 
and  Ministers  of  Destiny. 


82  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

When  Hermia  Mary  left  Ireland  it  was  said  that  she 
had  emptied  the  county  of  its  most  beautiful  woman.  It 
may  well  be  so.  I  have  seen  her  portrait  by  Lawrence, 
which  gives  a  face  of  high  seriousness  and  rich  hues  of 
carmine,  ivory,  and  dark  brown.  Her  figure  is  certainly 
exquisite,  her  hair  like  a  sable  cloud.  Her  rivals  in  Dub- 
lin, and  afterwards  in  London,  used  to  say  that  she  had 
too  much  composure  for  a  debutante.  They  all  implied 
by  that  that  she  had  her  own  ideas. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  WHICH  WE  HEAR  FROM  HER,   AND  OF  HER AND  PRES- 
ENTLY A  CRY  OF  THE  HEART 

f^  ARYLL  HOUSE,  a  great  pile  of  building  in  the 
^^  Augustan  style,  stood  in  its  own  garden,  surrounded 
b}'  its  own  spiked  wall,  and  abutted  on  the  Green  Park, 
as  nearly  as  I  can  judge,  somewhere  south  of  the  Bridg- 
water House  of  our  day.  You  drove  in  from  Cleveland 
Row  between  a  fine  pair  of  wrought-iron  gates,  which 
dragon-crested  pillars  upheld,  which  a  porter  in  a  lodge 
jealously  guarded,  and  which  no  commoner  might  pass 
unquestioned  and  alive.  It  was  said  of  this  porter  that 
he  had  never,  in  a  service  of  thirty  years,  been  mistaken 
in  a  peer  or  a  peer's  son,  though  he  admitted  in  moments 
of  confidence  that  he  was  not  so  sure  as  he  had  been  of 
third  generations.  Jacob  Jacobs  was  the  name  of  this 
valuable  Argus,  and  he  had  been  given  to  understand  his 
value.  Once  a  year,  on  Saint  George's  Day,  he  was 
bidden  to  the  house  by  the  steward,  received  into  the 
housekeeper's  room,  where  wine  and  cake  stood  upon 
the  table ;  and  after  an  interval  of  not  more  than  half  an 
hour,  heralded  by  two  footmen  and  the  butler,  Lady 
Morfa  herself  appeared,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her 
appointed  companion  for  the  time.     All   rose  to  their 


34  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

feet.  The  butler  advanced  to  the  table,  poured  out  a 
glass  of  brown  sherry,  and  handed  it  to  her  ladyship. 
She  took  it,  and  herself  handed  it  to  Jacob  Jacobs,  who 
received  it  with  a  profound  salutation  and  a  careful  bow. 
Meantime,  the  housekeeper  had  cut  up  the  cake. 
"Jacobs,"  said  her  ladyship,  "I  desire  that  you  will  drink 
this  to  the  health  of  the  House.  It  is  Saint  George's 
Day." 

"I  thank  your  ladyship  kindly,"  was  the  time-honoured 
reply.  "Here's  Fame  to  the  House  and  stability  to  the 
British  Constitution."  Those  are  difficult  words — we 
know  they  were  made  a  test  case  for  topers — but  Jacob 
Jacobs  had  never  failed  in  them  yet.  He  drained  his 
glass,  and  handed  it  back  to  his  lady,  who  retired.  The 
cake  and  wine  might  then  be  consumed  by  the  assistants 
at  the  ceremony,  no  one  of  whom  had  ever  been  graced 
so  highly  as  this.  Once,  many  years  ago,  the  house- 
steward  (father  of  the  man  of  1809)  had  led  her  lady- 
ship out  in  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  But  that  had  been 
after  the  christening  of  his  present  lordship — and  that 
had  been  in  the  country,  where  manners  are  more  relaxed. 

These  particulars  will  serve  to  show  what  kind  of  state 
was  maintained  within  that  massy  approach  guarded  by 
the  privileged  Jacobs,  and  perhaps  to  explain  the  fact 
that  it  was  found  to  be  excessively  irksome  by  Miss 
Hermia  Mary,  after  the  slippered  ease,  the  hunt-break- 
fasts, the  barehead-scampers,  and  firelight  readings  of 
Chambre's  Court,  after  the  domestic  calm — chicken-rear- 


WE  HEAR  FROM  HER  35 

ing,  egg-marking,  gardening,  and  what-not  of  her  more 
recent  experience,  in  the  home  of  Cousin  Mary  Fox,  at 
sweet  Kilbride.  In  an  early  letter  to  this  lady — always 
her  dearest  friend —  we  catch  some  hint  of  it.  "A  giant 
to  each  door,  and  a  row  of  white-headed,  flaming-breeched 
giants  in  the  gallery ;  a  groom  of  the  chambers  to  herald 
any  silly  errand  to  grandmamma — vexatious,  Mary !  I 
feel  like  a  parcel  from  the  country — fresh  butter,  per- 
haps— handed  about  from  man  to  man,  from  coach  to 
coach,  and  delivered  at  last,  greasy  and  thumbed,  to  my 
purchaser.  She,  of  course,  gives  me  over  to  a  secretary 
or  a  maid  to  be  opened  and  put  away. 

"Oh,  Mary,  Mary,"  she  wails  in  her  comical  way,  "we 
have  six  men  to  feed  us,  and  each  man  has  his  office.  One 
hands  clean  plates,  one  must  touch  dirty  plates  only ;  if 
the  butler  has  toothache,  nobody  can  have  any  wine.  At 
least,  I  suppose  not,  but  as  yet  he  has  escaped  it.  We 
have  a  clergyman  to  say  our  prayers  for  us — who  says 
twice  a  day,  'Thou  Who  didst  bring  order  out  of  chaos, 
and  say  unto  Thine  Elect,  Come,  ye  blessed,  and  unto 
others.  Depart  ye,  bless  this  noble  family,  which  Thou 
hast  set  up,  prosper  it  exceedingly,'  &c.,  &:c.  Upon  my 
honour,  Mary !  And  instead  of  my  dear  old  Gibby  to 
sit  on  my  bed  and  scold  me  while  I  get  ready  for  it,  I  am 
now  undressed  and  put  there  by  a  Mrs.  JNIoth,  and  I  can't 
get  out  of  the  place  at  all  unless  Mr.  Jacobs  chooses  to 
unlock  the  gates  and  somebody  goes  with  me  to  see  that 
I  don't  run  away.     They  say,  Lord  Rodono  says,  that 


36  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Carlton  House  is  a  lodge  in  a  garden  of  cucumbers  com- 
pared with  ours,  and  grandmamma  says,  'Very  prob- 
ably.' She  calls  the  royal  family  'a  horde  of  Germans,' 
and  says  that  they  eat  sausages  in  the  Throne  Room. 
She  thinks  that  very  bad,  but  I  see  no  advantage  in  being 
a  prince  unless  you  can  do  as  you  please — and  if  you  like 
sausages,  why  not  eat  them  where  you  can?  We  are  to 
go  there  on  Wednesday  week,  so  I  shall  be  able  to  judge. 
I  shall  certainly  eat  sausages  if  I'm  asked.  Dick  likes  all 
this  parade,  or  says  he  does.  It  makes  me  think  of  dear 
papa,  who  taught  mamma  to  run  away  from  it,  and  I  cry 
my  eyes  out  at  night  sometimes  when  I  know  there  won't 
be  a  footman  there  to  hand  a  handkerchief  or  catch  my 
tears  in  a  bottle.    Truly,  that's  the  only  time  I  am  alone." 

She  has  something  more  to  say  of  Mrs.  Moth,  her  new 
maid. 

"Grandmamma  has  sent  away  poor  Gibson — there  was 
such  a  scene !  The  dear  girl  sobbed  and  clung,  vowed 
she'd  be  cut  off  me  in  pieces ;  but  'her  ladyship'  was  not 
to  be  moved,  so  she  went  yesterday,  and  now  I'm  without 
a  friend  in  England.  I'm  glad  to  say  that  she  has  gone 
to  her  old  aunt's  at  Plashetts — Cousin  George  Coigne's 
place  in  Hertfordshire — and  I'm  promised  faithfully  to 
see  her  once  a  year.  'Moth'  is  the  name  of  my  new  maid 
— like  a  person's  in  Shakespeare !  Mrs.  INIoth.  She  is 
a  very  fashionable  young  lady,  rather  pretty,  I  suppose, 
with  quick  black  eyes,  which  she  knows  how  to  use,  I  can 
sec.     She  minces  her  words,  calls  china  chaney,  and  me 


WE  HEAH  FROM  HER  37 

Miss  Cheemhre.  You  should  have  seen  her  picking  over 
my  clothes,  raking  about  with  finger  and  thumb.  She 
and  grandmamma  fingered  them  together,  and  bickered 
over  them  like  two  hoodie  crows.  I  was  furious,  but  it 
made  no  difference.  Madame  Pekrine,  or  some  name 
of  the  sort,  was  sent  for  to  make  me  'fit  to  be  seen' — that 
will  take  half-a-dozen  gowns  at  least,  according  to 
Moth.  If  they  are  to  be  like  some  I  saw  at  Lady  Jersey's 
last  night  I  shall  die  of  shame.  My  sweet  cousin,  you 
never  saw  such  gowns,  or  such  absence  of  gowns — liter- 
ally abandoned!  ]\Irs.  Fancourt  was  there,  like  Venus 
rising  from  the  sea-^ — happily  somewhere  near  the  waist 
she  thought  better  of  it,  and  the  rest  remained  under 
muslin.  As  for  Lady  Oxford — but  my  pen  refuses  its 
office — burns  my  handy 

It  is  at  about  this  time  that  we  meet  with  her  in  some 
of  the  gossips,  diarists  of  the  time.  Lady  Susan  C — , 
who  had  known  her  in  Ireland,  writing  to  the  Duchess  of 
L — ,  "I  met  Hermy  Chambre  at  D —  House,  the  dear 
sweet.  She  was  looking  lovely — radiant — with  her  hair 
done  up  a  la  Grecque,  and  her  beautiful  shoulders  slip- 
ping in  and  out  of  her  bodice.  Her  roses  put  us  wicked 
old  Cockneys  to  shame.  She  has  a  very  bold  way  of 
speaking,  I  must  say — she  always  had — and  will  give 
Lady  M.  some  trouble,  I  doubt.  I  hope  she  will.  That's 
a  proud  old  mouse-trap  of  a  woman,  my  dear  soul.  ..." 
Mervyn  Touchett,  too,  was  greatly  taken  with  her.  .  .  . 
*'2d  February.    Dined  at  Caryll  House — a  large  party — 


38  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Sussexes,  Badlesmeres,  Crowlands,  Rogers,  of  course, 
Lady  Embercourt,  Moira  and  his  -flame,  Hertford,  with- 
out his,  &c.,  &c.  The  debutante  was  in  fine  verve,  col- 
oured Hke  a  ripe  peach — melting  ripe,  M.  said :  a  charm- 
ing as  well  as  a  lovely  person.  Prinny  is  said  by  Tom 
C —  to  be  mightily  struck,  and  she  is  quite  to  his  taste: 
beautiful !  She  has  wit,  or,  rather,  raillery,  but  can  be 
seriously  scornful  when  she  chooses.  We  talked  politics 
— old  Stanhope's  perpetual  motion  about  the  State  of 
the  Nation,  condition  of  the  people,  and  what-not.  She 
said  that  we  talked  of  England  as  though  it  were  a 
'gentleman's  scat,'  and  the  people  the  rabbits  in  it. 
Why  did  we  always  treat  'the  people'  en  bloc  like  a  head 
of  game  ?  I  replied  that  Bonaparte  had  made  us  think  in 
continents,  but  that  you  always  heard  of  a  man,  how- 
ever obscure,  when  he  was  hanged.  'Yes,'  says  Miss, 
raising  her  fine  brows,  'we're  all  noble  when  we're  dead — 
all  peers  then.'  Not  much  in  it,  of  course,  but  she  in- 
tended to  snub  me — and  did." 

Here  you  have  her,  then,  as  a  strong  young  swimmer 
breasting  the  current  of  London's  tide.  "I  have  seen," 
she  writes,  "Lord  Crowland,  Saint  Paul's,  Westminster 
Abbey,  the  lion  at  Exeter  Change,  and  Madame  Catalan!. 
I  put  them  in  the  order  of  their  coming,  though  it  is  that 
of  my  appreciation  too.  Lord  Crowland  is  strikingly 
handsome.  Do  you  know  the  story  of  his  marriage?  It 
is  most  romantic.  He  had  loved  her  for  years,  though 
she  was  the  wife  of  another,  and  finally,  when  they  were 


WE  HEAR  FROM  HER  39 

travelling  abroad  somewhere,  his  feelings  overcame  him, 
and  he  spoke  to  her.  She  confessed  the  state  of  her  heart, 
and  they  have  been  married  quite  a  long  time.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  divorce,  naturally,  and  I  believe  a  meeting  between 
the  gentlemen.  I  have  seen  her,  too ;  she  was  very  kind  to 
me.  I  think  hirn  cold,  and,  though  you  may  not  agree, 
extremely  correct.  Of  course,  he  is  a  chief  of  the  Whig 
clan,  which  Lord  Rodono  calls  plus  royaliste  que  le  roy, 
because  it  considers  itself  to  be  king  of  kings.  Lord  R. 
is  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  pretends  to  be  a 
Jacobin;  but  Captain  Ranald — Lord  Clanranald's  son 
and  a  real  hero — says  that  he's  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  am 
great  friends  with  both  of  these  personages.  Mr.  Ranald 
is  the  bravest  man  that  ever  lived  since  papa  and  Lord 
Edward  died;  he  is  a  sailor  and,  Lord  Rodono  says,  a 
pirate.  He  uses  very  strong  language — hates  the  Gov- 
ernment. He  says  that  nothing  can  be  done  zvithout 
pikes." 

She  goes  about,  here  to  a  great  house,  there  to  a  great 
assembly — to  Almack's,  for  instance — wondering,  watch- 
ing, judging  out  of  her  young  clear  eyes.  She  is  taken 
to  Court,  and  kisses  the  old  Queen's  hand,  and  even  there 
can  find  a  moment  in  which  to  pity  "the  poor,  faded,  kind 
princesses."  She  is  at  Carlton  House,  kissed  by  the 
Prince  of  Wales.  .  .  .  "He  was  sadly  flushed,  Mary,  and 
smelt  of  brandy  ;  but  you  could  see  the  ravages  of  beauty 
in  him — his  eyes,  for  instance,  are  extraordinary,  briglit 
blue,   and   not   cold,  but  hot  and   impetuous,  like  that 


40  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

young  butcher's  I  told  you  about,  who  fought  two  gentle- 
men at  once — and  I  must  say  that  he  was  charming.  He 
talked  to  me,  standing,  for  ten  minutes  at  least,  neglect- 
ing a  whole  herd  of  people  who  were  waiting  to  kiss  or  to 
be  kissed,  and  then  led  me  into  another  room  and  sat  by 
me  on  a  divan.  Grandmamma  came,  too,  of  course — she 
never  lets  me  out  of  her  sight  (as  if  I  were  a  jewel-case  on 
a  journey!) — but  he  hardly  noticed  her.  He  talked  for 
nearly  half  an  hour,  I  suppose,  and  if  I  could  believe  a 
word  he  said  I  should  call  him  a  perfect  Jacobin.  He 
might  lead  England  to  liberty,  Mary,  if  he  chose !  He 
said  that  he  had  loved  Lord  Edward  like  a  blood-brother, 
and  that  he  loved  papa  for  being  on  his  side.  But  he 
owned  that,  situated  as  he  was  with  the  King  and  Minis- 
ters, he  could  do  nothing — as  yet.  Some  day,  he  said,  he 
hoped  and  prayed  might  see  him  King  of  the  English, 
not  of  England,  which  'nobody,'  he  said,  most  impres- 
sively, 'has  ever  been  since  the  death  of  King  Edward  the 
Confessor,  my  revered  ancestor,'  This  may  have  been 
blarney,  my  dear,  to  suit  my  Irish  upbringing,  but  it  was 
very  beautiful,  and  made  grandmamma  snort.  I  own 
that  it  made  me  near  crying.  Then  the  rather  disagree- 
able but  most  witty  Mr.  Sheridan  came  up,  and  said  some- 
thing in  a  low  voice,  and  the  Prince  kissed  my  hand  be- 
fore he  went  off  with  him.  Mr.  Sheridan's  eyes  are  burn- 
ing black.  Grandmamma  was  very  gracious  as  we  drove 
home — said  I  had  had  a  great  success.  ..." 
All  very  pleasant  so  far ;  but  a  week  later  we  get  a  taste 


WE  HEAR  FROM  HER  41 

of  her  quality,  where  it  conflicts  with  my  Lady  Morfa's^ 
I  dare  not  omit  it. 

"I  have  had  a  passage  of  arms  with  grandmamma,"  she 
tells  her  Mary  Fox,  "rather  unpleasant  while  it  lasted, 
but  I  got  my  way.  It  was  all  about  Harriet  Moon,  who 
is  her  companion  and  secretary,  it  seems,  though  I  never 
knew  it  before.  Well,  the  day  before  yesterday,  when  I 
came  upstairs  after  luncheon,  I  found  a  girl  standing, 
bonneted  and  pelissed,  in  the  corridor  leading  to  grand- 
mamma's wing — as  if  she  was  waiting  for  somebody.  I 
hardly  glanced  at  her,  but  just  noticed  that  she  looked 
thin  and  pale,  and  had  mournful  ej'es,  very  large — 
brown,  I  thought  them,  and  so  they  are,  beautiful  eyes  in- 
deed. I  read  for  an  hour,  and  then  Moth  came  to  dress 
me  for  a  drive — and  when  I  went  down,  there  was  the 
girl  still  standing  in  the  corridor.  I  asked  her.  Did  she 
want  anything?  And  she  thanked  me  very  nicely,  and 
said,  'Oh,  no.'  So  I  drove  until  it  was  dusk,  and  then 
came  back  and  went  upstairs — and  there  was  that  poor 
girl  still  standing !  This  time  I  asked  her  if  she  would 
not  come  in  and  rest  in  my  sitting-room  by  the  fire ;  and 
she  refused  for  a  long  time.  But  I  insisted,  and  she  be- 
gan  to  cry — so  I  settled  it  by  leading  her  bodily  in.  I 
put  her  by  the  fire  with  her  toes  on  the  fender,  and  sent 
Moth  down  to  get  her  some  cake  and  a  glass  of  wine— 
for  she  looked  famished. 

"The  wine  revived  her.  I  was  as  kind  to  her  as  I  could 
be,  and  made  her  tell  me  everything.     She  was  Harriet 


42  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Moon,  she  told  me,  who  had  been  to  her  people  in 
Shropshire — nursing  her  mother,  I  think — and  had  over- 
stayed her  leave  by  two  or  three  days.  And  this,  if  you 
please,  was  'her  ladyship's'  way  of  showing  her  high  dis- 
pleasure— to  keep  that  miserable  girl,  after  two  days  and 
a  night  in  the  stage-coach,  waiting  in  the  corridor  from 
half -past  one  to  half -past  four,  without  bite  or  sup. 
Apart  from  the  savagery  of  the  revenge,  apart  from  the 
hatefulness  of  stooping  so  far  for  vengeance,  think  of 
the  terror  of  that  shivering  wretch,  who  dared  not  move 
even  when  the  tyrant  was  out !  It  gave  me  a  horror,  but 
made  my  cheeks  burn  like  fire.  I  do  so  detest  power  used 
like  that. 

"Well,  Harriet  Moon  was  in  a  terrible  fright  as  to  what 
'her  ladyship'  would  say  or  do  when  she  found  out  what 
I  had  done;  and,  as  it  happened,  her  own  woman  did 
come  in  presently  to  say  that  'Miss  Moon  was  wanted!' 
I  sent  a  message  to  say  where  she  was,  and  that  she  would 
come ;  and  then,  as  the  timid  creature  was  quite  white  and 
trembling,  I  decided  to  go  with  her.  And  I  did  it — took 
her  arm,  and  marched  into  grandmamma's  boudoir  as 
bold  as  you  please.  I  said,  'Grandmamma,  I've  brought 
Miss  IMoon  to  you,  but  you  mustn't  tease  her  to-night. 
You've  made  her  quite  ill  enough  as  it  is.  I  think  you've 
been  most  unkind — and  if  you  are  going  to  be  cross  with 
her,  I  shall  punish  you.'  Of  course,  I  made  her  think 
that  this  was  said  for  impudence,  but  I  meant  it.  I  had 
a  plan — what  do  you  think?     I  had  made  up  my  mind 


WE  HEAR  FROM  HER  43 

that,  unless  she  was  pleasant  to  the  girl,  I  should  threaten 
to  tell  the  Prince  the  whole  story ! 

"Grandmamma's  head  began  to  shake,  as  it  always  does 
when  she's  put  out ;  she  shook  like  a  poplar  leaf  when 
I  told  her  about  the  staked  horse  and  the  fight  at  the 
gates — and  she  wagged  her  hand  about  on  her  crutch. 
I  could  see  that  she  was  very  vexed  with  me,  but  she  pre- 
tended that  she  hadn't  known  INIiss  Moon  was  there. 
She  calls  her  'Moon' — did  you  ever  hear  such  arrogance  ? 
She  told  me  to  go  away,  but  I  said  that  I  could  not  until 
she  understood  that  I  had  insisted  on  taking  Miss  Har- 
riet into  my  room,  &c.,  &c.  And  then  I  went  on  to  talk 
about  all  sorts  of  things,  'in  my  airy  way,'  as  Cousin 
George  Fox  calls  it,  and  made  her  laugh.  That  ended 
it.  Harriet  came  to  me  late  that  same  night,  after  I 
had  returned  from  Almack's,  and  thanked  me.  She  has 
pretty  ways,  and  lovely  brown  eyes — quite  lovely.  I 
think  she's  cowed  here,  and  driven  to  various  conceal- 
ments and  subterfuges,  poor,  pretty  creature.  She  is 
two  or  three  years  older  than  I  am,  but  has  the  spirit  of  a 
mouse.  The  whole  affair  has  made  an  impression  upon 
me.  It  is  very  hateful,  I  think.  How  furious  my  dear 
papa  would  have  been.  I  saw  him  really  angry  once  over 
some  such  cold  piece  of  cruelty.  'If  you  stoop,  Hermy,' 
he  said  to  me  once,  'stoop  nobly.'  " 

Miss  Chambre  seems  here  to  have  begun  her  champion- 
ing of  the  oppressed,  and  she  continued  it  long.  She  is 
to  continue  it,  I  tell  you  fairly,  until  this  book  is  done, 


44.  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

in  various  ways  and  by  divers  expenditures  of  person, 
name,  and  fame.  She  is  to  retire  from  the  fray — I  scorn 
concealment;  leave  that  to  poor  Miss  Moon — sane  and 
whole,  but  not  without  bruises.  Bruises  are  to  be  looked 
for,  unless  you  follow  the  practice  of  Hippolyta,  Queen 
of  the  Amazons.  She  and  her  virgin  cohorts,  we  know, 
maimed  themselves  before  battle.  Miss  Hermia  Mary 
never  stopped  for  that. 

The  note  deepens  from  this  point,  the  letters  cry.  Here 
is  one  extract,  torn  from  the  girl's  heart:  "Behind  all 
this  enormous  parade  I  seem  now  and  then  to  be  guess- 
ing, groping  after  monstrous  shapes  which  evade  me — 
an  indifference,  an  ignorance,  a  callousness  to  rights, 
sufferings,  private  torture,  which  almost  pass  behef. 
I'll  tell  you  more  later,  when  I  know  more;  just  now  my 
heart  is  on  fire.  Love  me,  INIary,  love  me  still,  before  I 
am  past  all  loving,  and  nothing  but  a  silver-papered 
parcel  on  a  high  shelf  in  a  cabinet.  Now  and  till  then, 
your  Hermy." 

Here  is  a  "p.p.s.,"  with  a  comic  wistfulness  in  it — serio- 
comic, as  I  believe.  ...  "I  have  seen  the  place  in  the 
wall  of  the  garden  over  which  mamma  climbed  when  dear 
papa  came  for  her.  His  horse  stood  immediately  below, 
in  the  park.  The  iron  spikes,  which  he  broke  off,  have 
never  been  replaced.  I  see  a  glimmer  of  hope  through 
the  gap."  Now  comes  a  break  of  more  than  a  week,  and 
then  a  real  cry  of  pain.     The  girl  is  shocked.   .    .    . 

"Oh,    Mary!      Oh,    Mary!      I    can   hardly    write    for 


WE  HEAR  FROM  HER  45 

shame.  You  remember  what  I  told  3"ou  of  the  scene  out- 
side the  gates — of  the  murdered  horse?  You'll  never  be- 
lieve me.  Those  two  young  men  were  my  Uncle  Morfa 
and  his  friend,  Lord  Edlogan.  This  is  literally  true. 
They  now  own  to  it.  They  were  tipsy,  but  that  is  no 
excuse  for  what  is  going  on  now.  They  have  sent  the 
owner  of  the  horse  to  prison,  and  mean  to  keep  him 
there  without  a  trial.  He's  a  Radical,  I  hear.  I  can't 
tell  you  any  more  just  yet. — Your  disgraced  Hebmia. 
Mary." 


CHAPTER  V 

IN    WHICH,    AT    LAST,    WE    GET    THE    FACTS 

Q^  O  we  are  back  again,  dead-up  against  the  butcher's 
*^  horse,  and  that  combat  about  his  carcase  which  had 
so  discouraged  Miss  Hermia  Mary,  and  over  which  the 
eagle-beaked  Countess  of  Morfa,  bhnking  her  httle 
angry,  intolerable  e3'^es,  had  proposed  to  herself  to  take 
a  soaring  flight.  The  facts  were  perfectly  simple.  The 
gentlemen  had  been  lunching,  the  person  had  been  grossly 
impudent — what  more  need  be  said.''  And  at  least  let 
notliing  whatever  be  said  to  an  ardent  Miss  Chambre 
unstrung  by  travel.  And  nothing  was  said — and  yet 
the  affair  was  not  laid.  To  treat  it  as  though  it  had 
never  been  proved  a  counsel  of  perfection,  with  cir- 
cumstances fatally  against  it ;  for  first  Lord  Morfa,  a 
sickly  youth,  fell  ill,  as  we  know,  and  kept  his  bed, 
and  next  Lord  Edlogan,  his  friend — Beauty  Edlogan 
they  called  him,  and  Marquis  of  Edlogan  he  was,  tlie 
Duke  of  Wentsland's  son — discovered  an  inflammation 
of  the  nose;  and,  thirdly,  the  butcher  was  taken  to 
the  King's  Bench,  and  lay  there  awaiting  his  charge. 
Lastly,  the  worst  of  all,  politicians  settled  down  in 
clouds,  and  the  various  wounds  began  to  fester — and 
then  Lad}^  Morfa  lost  her  temper,  and  determined  not 


THE  FACTS  47 

to  charge  the  butcher  at  all,  but  to  keep  him  where  he 
was.  Bj  degrees  and  degrees,  the  facts  obtruded  them- 
selves, by  degrees  took  shape  and  got  themselves  in  mo- 
tion, until  at  last  all  London  seemed  to  be  swirling  round 
a  maelstrom-gulf,  at  bottom  of  which  you  might,  if  you 
had  had  a  head  to  look  with,  have  discerned  the  mangled 
remains  of  a  horse.  Round  and  round,  nearer  and 
nearer  in,  swirled  our  actors  and  a  hundred  more ;  and 
some  of  them  were  sucked  down  and  had  to  battle  for 
dear  hfe  to  win  the  free  air  again,  and  some  went  under, 
heels  first,  and  were  known  no  more — and  all  because  a 
tipsy  gentleman  staked  a  butcher's — ?  Not  at  all,  but 
because  Family  came  into  conflict  with  the  Mob,  and  out 
of  the  Mob  a  head  uplifted  and  discovered  itself  to  be 
that  of  a  person,  not  to  be  treated  en  bloc,  like  rabbits 
in  a  park.  It  is  a  sign  of  the  breaking-up  of  things  old 
when  the  Mob — that  colluvies — segregates  into  persons 
with  souls  to  be  lost  or  won.  There's  the  significant 
thing  for  us — ^that  the  age  as  we  know  it  was  yeasting 
in  the  bowl.  But  let  us  take  the  facts  of  the  case,  as 
Miss  Chambre  got  them  out,  and  see  how  simple  they 
may  have  been. 

The  facts  were  that  Lord  Morfa  and  his  friend  Ed- 
logan,  after  a  generous  meal  together,  were  about  to 
enter  the  curricle  of  the  first  and  proceed  to  the  park, 
when  they  saw  the  famous  horse  tethered  to  the  railings, 
and  with  that  eye  for  a  fine  young  animal  which  no- 
body of  their  acquaintance  could  refuse  them,  they  ad- 


48  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

mired.  They  did  more ;  they  examined  it  point  by  point, 
and  became  inflamed  by  its  perfections.  They  were 
touched,  they  were  pricked  in  their  honour,  they  were 
affronted.  Damn  the  fellow,  where  did  he  get  such  a 
horse,  a  blood  horse,  a  pacer.?  Put  a  saddle,  which  you 
could  call  a  saddle,  on  that  horse,  and  a  man  might  air 
him  in  the  Row.  One  had  seen  a  fellow  on  a  worse  horse 
in  Pall  Mall,  anr^  aken  no  notice.  It  was  a  start,  a 
rummy  go — whose  was  the  horse?  Jacob  Jacobs,  his 
gates  open,  touched  his  hat  at  this  point.  It  was  young 
Vernour's,  the  butcher's,  my  lords.  The  butcher's ! 
Damn  the  butcher — this  was  no  horse  for  him.  Lord 
Morfa's  offended  eyes  interrogated  those  of  his  friend. 
What  the  deuce  were  we  coming  to  ?  he  required  to  know. 
Edlogan  briskly  said  that  he  must  try  the  horse — and 
•did.  Round  and  about  he  cantered,  to  the  admiration 
of  all.  A  perfect  action,  a  great  goer !  The  horse  had 
a  mouth.  Morfa,  who  was  undoubtedly  drunk — every- 
body admitted  that — and  when  drunk  very  mettlesome, 
Was  now  for  putting  him  at  the  railings  round  the  grass- 
plat.  This  kind  of  horse,  he  told  Edlogan — Irish,  he 
would  swear — could  jump  like  a  cat.  Would  Edlogan 
bet  upon  it.?  Damn  it,  a  man  should  back  his  opinion, 
hey.''  And  here  Jacob  Jacobs,  finding  himself  under  the 
enquiry  of  his  master,  again  touched  his  hat  and  said, 
"Certainly,  my  lord."  He  blamed  himself  for  that  after- 
wards. The  carriage-drive,  you  must  know,  formed  a 
great  circle  of  grit,  and  in  the  midst  had  an  enclosure 


THE  FACTS  49 

of  grass,  round  about  the  statue  of  the  prescient  Earl 
Rupert,  fenced  in  by  stout  iron  rails  not  more  than  five 
feet  high — close  rails,  as  sharp  as  spears. 

Lord  Edlogan,  who  owned  to  having  been  fresh,  but 
denied  that  he  had  been  drunk,  had  laughed  his  friend 
to  scorn.  "You'll  cut  his  head  off,  Roddy,  and  break 
your  neck — sure  as  a  gun  you  will.  You've  a  bad  seat  at 
the  best,  my  boy,  but  when  you're  dr-  nk  you've  no  seat 
at  all,"  and  so  on;  whereat,  and  at  jeers  from  beyond 
the  gates,  possibly  also  on  a  view  of  the  concerned  eyes 
of  Jacob  Jacobs,  anxious  for  the  welfare  of  a  peer,  Lord 
Moi'fa  grew  hot.  Damn  the  horse !  damn  Edlogan !  he'd 
show  what  could  be  done.  He  flung  his  caped  overcoat 
to  the  gate-keeper,  and,  after  a  brief  but  glorious 
struggle,  was  able  to  mount  the  nervous  little  animal. 
He  gave  him  a  couple  of  smacks  on  the  flank  with  his 
glove,  pushed  him  with  his  knees,  dug  his  heels  in 
sharply,  and  went  round  the  gravel  court  at  an  easy  can- 
ter, which  he  increased  to  a  sort  of  a  gallop  as  the  mur- 
murs from  the  gates  struck  his  ears.  Jacob  Jacobs  had 
got  back  to  his  post,  lest  the  mob  should  invade  the 
sanctuary,  "and  God  knows  what  next,"  as  he  put  it. 
From  there  he  saw,  and  quaked  to  see,  my  lord  take  a 
couple  of  turns,  rocking  dangerously  in  his  seat ;  "and 
the  daylight  you  could  see  betwixt  liis  lordship's  fork  and 
the  saddle  would  have  mended  a  Sunday  afternoon,"  said 
he.  But  the  madness  of  high  blood !  After  that  turn  or 
two  about  and  about,  all  of  a  sudden  "his  lordship  took 


50  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

and  screwed  the  boss's  head  round,  and  in  with  his  heels ; 
and  he  put  him  at  the  rails  with  a  short' rem,  did  his  lord- 
ship." Words  failed  him  here  to  describe  the  queer 
silence  that  followed,  as  the  gallant  little  beast  did  his 
gallantest.  But  the  run  was  absurd,  the  take-off  next  to 
nothing-.  He  swerved  as  he  refused,  and  disposed  of  his 
rider ;  but  then,  as  if  startled  by  the  howls  of  the  audience 
he  had,  he  gathered  his  legs  under  him  and  tried  the 
fence.  There  was  no  howling  now — it  was  too  horrible 
— nameless.  Indeed,  though  he  lashed  himself  free,  it 
was  but  to  die — and  at  that  moment  of  glazing  eyes  the 
butcher  came  out  from  the  shrubbery  which  concealed  the 
tradesman's  door.  Lord  Morfa  was  by  that  time  at  the 
great  gates,  very  shaky,  tense  and  white,  being  helped 
into  his  overcoat  of  many  capes  by  his  servitor,  and 
Edlogan,  half  crying  with  excitement  and  honest  grief, 
was  standing  by  him,  adjuring  him  "for  God's  sake"  to 
get  out  of  this.  The  mob  was  distracted  for  the  moment 
by  watching  what  the  horse's  owner  would  do. 

His  name  was  Vemour,  David  Vemour;  he  was  the 
"son"  of  Vernour  and  Son,  family  butchers,  of  Brook 
Street,  Hanover  Square.  He  was  a  fine  young  man, 
broad-breasted,  tall,  and  well-made ;  he  may  have  been 
five  or  six-and-twenty.  He  was  of  the  Saxon  type,  blue- 
eyed,  fair-haired;  one  who  flushed  easily  and  had  not 
much  to  say  for  himself.  Yet  it  came  out  afterwards 
that  he  was  "superior,"  and  something  of  a  public 
speaker — also  that  he  was  a  Radical — but  even  Tories 


THE  FACTS  51 

might  have  done  what  he  did.  His  friends  averred  that 
he  did  not  know  Lord  Morfa  b}'^  sight,  but  most  of  them 
were  constrained  to  add  that,  had  he  known  him,  it  would 
have  made  no  difference  to  his  conduct.  He  was 
admittedly  hot-tempered. 

At  first  he  grew  very  red,  and  ran  forward  to  the  fallen 
horse,  knelt  by  it  and  put  his  cheek  to  its  nostrils.  It 
was  still  alive  then,  but  breathing  faintly ;  it  lay  in  a 
pool  of  bright  blood — arterial  blood.  With  "a  kind  of 
sob,"  as  it  was  afterwards  told  to  Miss  Chambre  (and 
no  harm  done  to  his  case),  he  bent  his  head  over  his  horse 
— then  threw  it  up,  and  stiffened  at  the  shoulders  as  he 
looked  over  to  the  gates  to  find  out  with  whom  he  must 
reckon.  He  seemed  to  decide  quickly,  for  he  rose  to  his 
feet  and  strode  over  the  gravel ;  and  he  must  have  been 
beside  himself  when  he,  bare-headed,  in  his  blue  frock  and 
apron,  could  clip  the  young  Marquis  of  Edlogan  on 
the  shoulder,  and  bring  him  sharply  round  as  if  he  had 
been  stung.     Good  heavens!  and  had  he  not  been  stung.'' 

"Who  did  that.'"'  Jacob  Jacobs  would  swear  that  he 
never  said  "my  lord."  He  never  used  the  word  "lord," 
and  only  once  said  "sir."  He  might  have  been  talking  to 
any  common  person. 

Edlogan,  not  liking  his  tone,  which  was  curt,  nor,  per- 
haps, his  question,  which  was  to  the  point,  replied, 
"Couldn't  say,  my  man,"  and  turned  his  back.  It  is 
supposed  that  he  meant  to  be  loyal  to  his  friend — and, 
at  any  rate,  he  had  not  done  it.     Whereupon  Vernour 


h2  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

rounded  on  Lord  Morfa  with  his  "Is  that  your  work, 
sir?"  He  was  more  respectful  now,  and  all  might  yet 
have  been  well  had  not  the  mob  answered  the  question. 

"  'Twas  my  lord  as  done  it.  That's  your  man, 
butcher,"  and  so  on. 

Mo'tf a  never  looked  at  him  at  all ;  he  swore  at  large. 

*'Damn  it  all,"  said  he,  "it  was  the  horse's  fault, 

and  this mob  here." 

"I  left  the  horse  tethered  to  the  railings,"  says  Vernour, 
-and  Lord  Morfa  jumped  about. 

"Who  the  hell  are  you .''  I  wish  you'd  go  to  the  devil," 
he  snapped  at  him. 

"If  I  do  that,"  said  Vernour,  "I  take  you  with  me ;" 
and  with  that  he  scruffed  the  young  peer  with  so  firm 
a  grip  that  nothing  in  the  power  of  Edlogan,  no  adjura- 
tion from  the  shocked  lips  of  Jacob  Jacobs — whose  "For 
the  Lord's  sake,  Vernour,  for  the  Lord  of  Mercy's  sake 
loose  my  lord!"  should  have  been  double-edged — would 
induce  him  to  let  go.  Lord  Morfa,  not  a  cleanly  young 
roan,  used  atrocious  language;  Lord  Edlogan  stormed 
and  argued,  was  heartily  ashamed  of  the  whole  affair, 
and  the  more  ashamed  he  was  the  more  angry  he  got. 
"The  fellow  was  unreasonable,"  he  afterwards  explained. 
"He'd  have  been  paid,  of  course — I'd  have  paid  him  if 
Roddy  wouldn't — and  I  know  Roddy  don't  like  to  part — 
but,  damn  it !  he  had  him  like  a  rag-doll — and  a  man 
can't  stand  that."  Moved  by  such  feelings,  he  certainly 
attacked  Vernour — and  with  spirit ;  the  crowd  swarmed 


THE  FACTS  58; 

and  serried  for  the  fight ;  a  chimnej-sweeper.  and  an  un- 
shaven man  with  no  voice  whatsoever  formed  and  kept  a 
ring.  Vernour,  with  but  one  hand  free,  stopped  Ed- 
logan's  rushes ;  and  as  the  great  Caryll  chariot  came 
rumbhng  in  had  just  sent  him  on  to  his  hack.  In  the 
breathing  pause  which  he  obtained  his  eyes,  fierce  with 
battle,  met  those  of  Miss  Hermia  Chambre,  dwelt  on 
them,  and  were  dwelt  upon.  The  carriage  rolled  on,  the 
mob  surged  and  serried ;  and  Jacob  Jacobs,  powerless  ta, 
serve  his  gods,  fled  wailing  for  the  constables. 

Upon  their  arrival,  David  Vernour  released  his  limp, 
victim  and  went  quietly  to  the  King's  Bench.  That  is  the 
truth  of  this  very  disagreeable  affair,  which  her  ladyship, 
wished  to  ignore,  but  could  not. 


CHAPTER  VI 

m   WHICH   LOED   EODONO   MISHANDLES   THE   BAG   AND   MR. 
EANALD  STEOKES  THE   CAT 

ORD  MORFA  had  kept  his  room  for  some  days, 
'and  the  house  his  counsel — so  well  that  uncle  and 
niece  met,  when  at  last  they  did  meet,  in  very  friendly 
fashion.  Miss  Chambre  had  not  the  least  suspicion  that 
the  slight,  pale,  black-haired,  dark-chinned,  and  suffering 
young  man  in  a  dressing-gown  of  preposterous  elegance 
had  recently  been  under  her  eyes  swinging  like  a  dead 
cat  in  the  hold  of  the  flushed  butcher.  Searching,  as  she 
was  fond  of  doing,  for  character,  she  seemed  to  find  it 
in  his  laconic  manner.  She  liked  his  "How  do,  Hermy  ?" 
and  two  fingers  from  the  sofa,  and  returned  him  a  cheer- 
ful "Quite  well,  thank  you.  Uncle  Morfa,"  with  a  stoop 
downwards,  and  a  fresh  cheek  to  touch  his  own.  She  was 
sorry  for  the  fevered  youth,  had  felt  his  cheek  to  be  dry 
and  hot,  was  very  ready  to  excuse  his  irritability  with  his 
mother  and  his  valet,  and  set  herself  to  work  to  smooth 
out  his  "creases,"  as  she  called  them. 

There  was  plenty  to  say :  apart  from  the  coach  at  Holy- 
head and  Mr.  Aloysius  Banks,  who  were  ancient  liistory 
by  this  time,  there  were  the  new  conjuror,  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  and  Madame  Catalani  singing  "God  shave  the 


THE  CAT  AND  THE  BAG  55 

King."  Lord  Morfa,  who  liked  women,  liked  them  to  be 
pretty,  vivacious,  and,  above  all,  plump — "well  covered," 
as  he  put  it — was  certainly  amused.  He  lay  back  on  his 
cushion,  his  hands  behind  his  head,  and  fixed  her  with 
his  fever-bright  eyes.  "Good  gel — that's  capital ! 
Egad,  ma'am,  I  must  keep  that  for  Prinny — oh,  he'll  be 
a  proud  man,  by  George !"  He  was  certainly  pleased 
— and  so  her  tongue  ran  on.  "And  oh.  Uncle  Morfa,  I 
quite  forgot  to  tell  you.  As  we  came  in — that  first  day 
— there  was  a  fight.  ..."  Lady  Morfa  called  sharply, 
"Curtis,"  and  sent  the  valet  to  see  if  the  carriage  were  at 
the  door.  .  .  .  His  lordship  moved  uneasily,  but  did  not 
turn  his  eyes  away,  or  cease  to  smile. 

"Yes,  a  real  fight — at  the  gates.   ...    .  " 

"Dessay,".  said  his  lordship.  "They  te;ill  fight,  Hermj', 
when  they're  drunk,  you  know." 

"And  they  were  drunk,"  said  she.  "Two  of  them  were ; 
but  one  was  not.    He  was  a  hero,  I  thought." 

"They  fight,  you  know,"  he  said  dreamil}',  "like  the 
very  devil."     So  he  got  her  off  the  line. 

"But  he  does  it  without  being  drunk.  ..." 

"Ex  officio,"  said  Lady  Morfa  ;  and  then,  "Come,  child, 
or  you'll  tire  the  invalid." 

She  rose  and  looked  benevolently  down  upon  her  victim. 
"They  took  a  fine  vengeance  upon  the  man  who  wasn't 
tipsy,"  she  said.    "They  sent  him  to  prison  for  it." 

"Dessay,"  said  Lord  Morfa;  "where  the  devil's  my 
man.?     Look  here,  I  shall  go  to  sleep,  I  think."     She 


56  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

stooped  and  touched  his  forehead.  "Poor  Uncle 
Morfa !"  she  said  kindly,  and  went  away  with  her  grand- 
mamma to  a  party. 

And  then  she  forgot  the  thing,  left  it,  perhaps,  em- 
balmed in  the  recesses  of  her  mind — why,  how  should  she 
remember  it  between  drastic  inspections  of  gowns  by  her 
ladyship,  visits  to  Madame  Pelerine,  visits  to  Saint 
Paul's,  Lord  Crowland's  romantic  person,  Lady  Ox- 
ford's display  of  charms?  Never  was  such  a  wliirl  as 
hers — and  we  were  all  whirling  at  once  like  a  set  of  jug- 
gler's tops.  Dick  must  go  to  the  levee,  she  to  Bucking- 
ham House ;  Carlton  House  to  follow ;  a  dinner  to  meet 
the  Prince ;  Wednesday  the  opera ;  Thursday  a  dinner 
and  a  rout ;  Friday  the  Duchess's  ball — and  so  forth. 
She  made  her  little  sensation,  she  was  admired,  and  she 
knew  it.  Let  heroes  languish  in  chains  in  the  King's 
Bench,  let  Harriet  Moon  shiver  in  corridors — but  she,  the 
3"oung  beauty,  would  float  from  rout  to  rout,  and  gather 
her  roses,  and  give  them  away, 

Mervyn  Touchett  saw  her  at  R —  House.  "Saw  the 
little  Caryll  heiress  holding  her  court.  Sedate  and  glow- 
ing on  a  divan,  half-a-dozen  bucks  round  about  her. 
Stout  men,  too — politicians,  Tierney,  Tom  Rodono, 
Wormwood,  and  Bob  Ranald,  very  brisk.  She  waltzed 
and  looked  sumptuous."  The  waltz  was  stark  new  that 
year.  .  .  .  "My  dear,  I  have  been  in  a  dozen  men's 
arms !"  this  to  Mary  Fox.  "I'm  hot  all  over.  But  every- 
body does  it  now."     In  far  Kilbride,  vrhei'e  nobody  did 


THE  CAT  AND  THE  BAG  57 

it,  Mary  Fox  felt  worried.      There  were  more  serious 
things  to  worry  about,  if  she  had  but  known. 

They  say  that  she  was  a  "man's  woman" ;  and  she  con- 
fesses somewhere  that  she  preferred  men's  society.  .  ,  , 
"The  women,  ]\[ary,  rather  horrify  me.  They  preen 
themselves  like  pigeons  in  the  sun — and  sit  apart  as  if 
they  were  in  a  slave-market.  As  for  the  girls,  they  are 
dolls ;  dolls  with  palpitations !"  She  seems  to  have  had  a 
singularly  quick  judgment,  and  to  have  acted  upon  it 
without  faltering,  to  have  known  instantly  when  she  could 
afford  to  be  frank.  She  had  decided  at  a  glance  that  she 
liked  Harriet  Moon ;  and  when  she  met  Captain  Ranald  at 
a  dinner-part}^,  though  she  had  never  seen  him  before,  she 
did  not  scruple  to  tell  him  that  she  was  a  rebel  in  grain, 
almost  before  he  had  time  to  inform  her  that  he  was  a. 
Jacobin. 

Captain  the  Hon.  Robert  Ranald,  a  gallant,  brick-col- 
oured, fiery-haired  little  seaman,  whose  acts  in  the  high 
seas,  in  the  mouths  of  French  rivers  and  in  broken  Atlan- 
tic roadsteads  form  a  Saga,  was  at  this  time  in  England^ 
persecuting  the  Ministry  in  the  name  of  common-sense. 
He  was  now  one  of  the  members  for  Westminster,  and 
overweeningly  popular  with  the  mob.  As  he  was  quite 
without  virulence  or  prejudice,  he  was  detested  by  the 
Government,  Avhich  had  both  in  abundance.  They  bat- 
tered him,  and  made  him  laugh ;  he  hammered  them,  and 
they  were  vowed  to  his  ruin.  Mr.  Croker,  it  was  said, 
would    cheerfully    dance    at    Carlton    House    for    Bob 


58  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Ranald's  head  upon  a  charger.  This  spoke  a  volume  for 
the  hero,  who  confessed  himself  an  outlaw  as  he  handed 
Miss  Chambre  down  to  dinner. 

"I'm  home  to  stop  thieving,"  he  told  her,  "I'm  in  the 
House  to  stop  it,  and  every  thief's  hand  is  against  me. 
They  don't  like  the  facts,  and  they  don't  like  me.  I 
pound  'em ;  I  go  on  pounding  'em ;  I  bore  'em  to  death. 
Burdett's  far  too  much  of  a  gentleman — besides,  he  does 
'em  the  honour  to  disapprove  of  'em.  He  thinks  'em 
villains,  and  I  call  'em  fools.  So  I'm  half  an  outlaw  in 
the  minds  of  Ministers,  and  half  by  my  own  showing. 
If  the  fractions  add  themselves  aright.  Miss  Chambre, 
you  have  the  arm  of  a  man  who  must  needs  be  hanged." 

"I  have  held  such  arms  before,  sir,"  said  she.  "Lord 
Edward's  was  one,  and  my  father's  another." 

They  were  seated  by  this,  but  Ranald,  having  looked 
quickly  at  his  companion,  nevertheless  got  up  and  bowed 
to  her.  "You  are  Dick  Chambre's  daughter,  and  he  was 
Fitzgerald's  friend.  I'm  happily  mated."  He  began  to 
speak  of  Ireland,  and  of  Lord  Edward,  whom  he 
described  as  the  bravest  little  gentleman  and  straightest 
rider  he  had  ever  seen  in  his  life.  But  he  was  a  fool,  un- 
happily, because  he  let  those  qualities  rule  his  politics. 
"You  can  be  too  brave — you  can  be  too  true  to  the  scent. 
The  pace  may  kill  or  the  field  desert  you :  you  die  a 
lonely  death.  But  in  my  opinion  it  is  better  to  die  in 
Newgate  with  Fitzgerald  than  to  reign  with  Castlereagh 
in  Pall  Mall.    The  little  man  was  a  hero,  and  a  Saint." 


THE  CAT  AND  THE  BAG  59 

Her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes  were  devr3\  "A  divine  fool 
— that  is  what  I  know.  Everybody  must  know  it  in 
time.  I  can't  speak  of  him  without  tears — "  And  then, 
with  a  catch  in  her  voice,  "]My  father  was  just  hke  that." 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  he  said.  "He  rode  straight  and 
rode  hard.  But,  as  you  know,  and  I  know,  he  didn't 
ride  hard  enough  for  the  Castle  in  '98." 

"He  broke  his  horse's  heart,"  said  Hermia  Mary,  "and 
couldn't  get  another.  .  .  ..  You  never  knew  my  father?" 
He  folded  his  arms,  considered  them,  and  his  reply. 
Then  he  looked  her  in  the  face. 

"I  know  more  of  him  now  than  I  ever  did  before.  I 
know  that  he  must  have  broken  his  own  heart  as  well." 
Miss  Chambre  was  unable  to  reply. 

Her  neighbour  of  the  right-hand  was  Lord  Rodono,  a 
cheerful,  fresh-faced  nobleman,  eldest  son  of  the  Earl  of 
Drem.  He  was  tall,  upright,  stoutly  built,  sanguine  of 
complexion,  was  in  Parliament  for  an  obscure  burgh,  a 
great  admirer  of  women,  and  very  much  esteemed  by 
most  of  them.  His  somewhat  cold,  critical  blue  eyes,  per- 
haps, gave  confidence;  his  care  not  to  commit  himself 
certainly  did.  In  politics  he  ranked  with  the  opposition, 
as  became  the  heir  of  Drem ;  but  he  dallied,  never  indis- 
creetly, with  the  reformers.  Like  every  man  born  he 
talked  of  himself,  and  found  himself  the  best  joke  in  the 
world.  He  told  Miss  Chambre  that  he  liked  Whig 
women,  but  went  among  the  Jacobins  for  male  societ3\ 
There  were,  in  truth,  no  male  Whigs — that  was  a  con- 


60  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

tradiction  in  terms.  A  man  goes  by  passion,  a  woman 
by  feelings.  Now  you  can  passionately  decree  that 
somebody  should  wear  a  gold  hat,  or  passionately  at- 
tempt to  knock  that  off  his  head:  that  is  as  a  man  is 
Tory  or  Radical.  "But  no  man  of  my  acquaintance," 
he  said,  "will  choose  to  crown  his  fellow  with  straw, 
and  then  insist  that  it's  every  bit  as  good  as  gold — in 
fact,  much  better,  because  it's  the  same  thing,  only 
cheaper.  For  that  charming  fantasy  we  look  to  your 
sex.  Miss  Chambre." 

"But  you  are  a  Whig,  Lord  Rodono  ?  You  crown  the 
King  with  straw." 

"Pardon  me,  madam,  I  am  a  servant  of  Whigs,"  he 
said,  with  a  bow,  which  she  felt  to  be  too  pronounced. 

She  avowed  herself  a  Jacobin,  and  he  applauded  the 
confession.  A  pike  would  become  her ;  Bob  Ranald  was 
all  for  pikes.  He  questioned,  however,  her  grand- 
mamma's view.     The  peerage  impaled — eh? 

"Grandmamma  has  never  talked  politics  to  me,"  said 
Hermia ;  but  Lord  Rodono  was  looking  at  the  venerable 
lady,  who  sat  upon  their  host's  right-hand,  and  was  talk- 
ing of  Mr.  Clark,  that  Cytherea  of  the  mart.  Thus  it 
was  that  the  cat  came  out  of  the  bag. 

"How  under  the  eyes  of  heaven  she  allowed  you  to  be 
entrusted  to  Bob  Ranald,"  he  said  musingly,  "passes 
belief.  She  thinks  him  poisonous,  she  calls  him  'unfortu- 
nate.' Now  that's  nonsense,  of  course — poor  Bob's  as 
wholesome  as  a  March  gale;  but  he's  not  judicial — he 


THE  CAT  AND  THE  BAG  61 

tliinks  with  his  heart.  He's  gone  red-hot  into  that  affair 
of  yours." 

"What  affair  of  mine.'^"  she  asked,  thinking  more  of 
Ranald,  whom  she  admired,  than  of  herself. 

"Oh,  the  butcher's  horse,  you  know."  His  eyes 
twinkled  Avith  friendly  malice,  and  seemed  to  have  their 
reward.    He  brought  her  round  in  a  flash. 

"My  affair.  Lord  Rodono !  Indeed,  it  was  no  affair  of 
mine.     It  was  very  hateful." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  meant  of  your  family's.  Your 
grandmother's— Roddy's  affair.  And  then  there  was 
Edlogan's  nose — that  was  in  it,  too.  Very  awkward 
business  indeed.     Now  Bob  Ranald " 

But  Miss  Chambre  was  now  moved  in  earnest — she  was 
flooded  with  colour.  "Uncle  Morfa !  Lord  Edlogan ! 
Do  you — can  you  mean  that  they — .?"  She  made  him 
stare. 

"Good  God,  didn't  you  know  that.?  Why,  it's  all  over 
town.     Now  I've  put  my  foot  in  it." 

He  certainly  had,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  for  she 
had  nothing  more  to  say  to  him.  She  was  really  scan- 
dalised, but  she  was  startled  also — shocked,  alarmed. 
Her  feelings  were  tumultuous — why  had  this  been  hid- 
den from  her  ?  What  was  going  on  ?  Of  what  sort  were 
these  smooth-voiced,  courteous  people  she  was  among  .-^ 
Flesh  and  blood .^^  Her  flesh  and  blood?  To  grind  the 
faces  of  the  poor — and  to  smile,  and  bow,  and  be  witty — 
and  enormously  at  ease — served  on  bent  knees !     That 


62  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

was  a  veritable  cry  of  the  heart  when  she  said,  "Oh,  Lord 
liodono,  that  cannot  be  true!" 

He  had  to  assure  her  that  it  was  true,  and  to  make  out  a 
case.  "The  man  attacked  Roddy  before  he'd  heard  what 
there  was  to  say.  Nothing  much  to  say,  I  grant  you — 
but  no  doubt  he'd  have  been  paid,  not  the  slightest  doubt. 
And,  of  course,  he  will  be  paid  in  the  end — if  politics  are 
kept  out  of  it.  But  he's  known  to  Ministers  as  a  speaker 
in  the  Forum,  and  those  sort  of  places — Crown  and 
Anchor,  and  all  that ;  and  he  attacked  a  smaller  man  in 
his  own  place — and  the  constables  were  fetched,  as  they 
ought  to  have  been.  They  did  the  rest ;  the  rest  was  not 
Roddy's  doing — Roddy  was  abed.  I  think  that  you'll 
find  it  will  all  settle  down— unless  Bob  Ranald  makes  a 
hash  of  it.  And,  as  I  tell  Roddy,  he  must  keep  Sandgate 
from  hearing  of  it."  Such  talk  as  this  had  no  effect  on 
her  at  all ;  she  was  quick  enough  to  see  that  the  speaker 
was  extenuating,  making  smihng  apologies,  as  it  were, 
for  shutting  the  prison-doors.  "Really,  if  there's  going 
to  be  all  this  to-da— if  you'll  allow  me,  I'll  just — I  feel 
myself  in  need  of  repose !"  She  grew  hot  all  over  as 
she  felt  the  spiked  walls  of  Caryll  House  closing  in  upon 
her,  and,  in  her  mind's  eye,  saw  Jacob  Jacobs  in  his  gold- 
laced  hat  and  shoulder-knots,  sorrow  upon  his  face,  lock- 
ing the  great  gates.  Hateful  thought — and  she  the 
daughter  of  Dick  of  the  Gallop !  And  she  who  had  stood 
open-armed,  warm-bosomed  to  England !  And  this  was 
England !     And  these  proud  eyes  of  the  strong  fighter 


THE  CAT  AND  THE  BAG  63 

— she  remembered  them  now — were  to  be  purbhnded  in 
the  dark — while  the  Carylls  smiled  at  ease!  Angry,  in- 
dignant, sore,  alarmed,  the  debutante  looked  fiercely 
about  her  world. 

"Forgive  me" — this  was  Ranald's  voice — "I  heard 
Rodono  talking.  It's  true,  what  he  said  of  mc.  I  am 
not  judicious.  I  believe  I'm  glad  of  it.  If  every  one 
were  judicious,  justice  would  never  be  done.  I  know 
Vernour,  and  intend  to  help  him — indeed,  I'm  bound  to 
that,  for  he's  in  my  constituency.  He's  a  Westminster 
freeman,  and  a  fine  fellow.     No  offence  to  you." 

"Offence — no,  no !"  She  was  fingering  breadcrumbs, 
looked  very  uncomfortable — ^but  raised  her  fine  eyes  to 
his.  "Captain  Ranald,  I  must  not  talk  about  it — now— 
now  that  I  know — "  She  couldn't  finish ;  and  then  he 
spoke  vehemently  to  her,  but  under  his  breath. 

"This  place — ^this  country — London,  England — is  not 
fit  for  the  likes  of  you  to  inhabit.  A  rat-pit  of  a  coun- 
try!  Who  dares  be  honest.^  Who  can  afford  it?  Privi- 
lege, privilege,  privilege !  There's  the  sound  of  your 
horse's  hoofs — and  down  goes  young  Vernour.  I  should 
like  to  tell  you  about  him — some  day." 

She  blushed,  but  she  said,  "Tell  me  now."  But  he  would 
not  say  much. 

"When  I'm  free  to  speak — when  I've  got  him  out.  I'll 
tell  you  this,  though :  he's  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  be 
served  in  this  way,  because  he's  sensitive.  He's  quick. 
He  feels  himself  strong — and  that  kind  get  dashed,  and 


64}  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

hurt  tliemselves.  They  kick  at  the  pricks — and  injus- 
tice, or  what's  worse,  indifference,  bites  inwards  and  cor- 
rodes. They  may  poison  the  man  through  before 
they've  done  with  him.  But  there !  he's  Mob — and  you're 
Family — and  justice  must  be  done,  God  save  us!  And 
they  wonder  that  I'm  a  reformer — and  say  that  I  wield 
a  muck-rake.     Well,  you  must!" 

She  was  regarding  him  now  so  earnestly,  was  so  ab- 
sorbed that  he  checked  himself.  "Let  me  advise  you, 
keep  out  of  this  affair.  You  can  do  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing.  Nobody  can  do  much  but  patch-work.  We 
liave  to  fight  with  unhallowed  swords.  You — if  3'ou  ever 
come  into  battle — must  come  like  Joan  of  Arc,  with  a 
sword  pure  from  the  altar.  I'll  follow  you  then.  Ah, 
you  are  going?     Good-bye." 

The  ladies  rose.  Hermia  took  her  place  with  the  pro- 
cession, but,  as  if  by  intention,  her  grandmother  waited 
for  her,  took  her  hand,  and  led  her  from  the  room.  He 
saw  the  girl  blush,  bite  her  lip,  lower  her  eyes. 

"All  3^our  troubles  before  you,  my  dear,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "She'll  get  mauled,  but  she'll  come  out  somehow." 
Then  he  helped  himself  to  the  claret. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHICH  PRESENTS  THE  VIEW  OF  MISS   HARRIET  MOON 

rr^HAT  dinner-party  had  been  in  the  second  week  of 
■*■  February,  at  which  time  also  we  must  place  that 
crying  letter  of  Miss  Chambre's  to  Mary  Fox — the 
"Love  me,  Mary,  love  me  still"  letter — as  I  suspect; 
and  that  other  which  records  the  disgraceful  truth. 
Why,  being  the  girl  we  know  her,  she  did  not  "have  it 
out"  with  old  Lady  Morfa  has  now  to  be  explained.  She 
had  already  had  a  passage  of  arms  with  her,  the  reader 
will  recollect,  over  the  cowering  form  of  Miss  Harriet 
Moon,  and  had  been  victorious  in  that  encounter.  Here 
she  had  a  stronger  case,  and  was  herself  the  stronger  for 
victory ;  and  yet  she  contented  herself  with  outpourings 
to  a  IMary  Fox ! 

Well,  first  of  all,  she  had  to  make  sure  of  her  ground ; 
she  had  to  find  out  the  whole  of  the  story  as  we  know  it 
now.  She  must  interrogate  Jacob  Jacobs,  Progcrs,  a 
housemaid  who  had  seen  the  tragedy  from  an  attic  win- 
dow; she  must  learn  that  his  lordship  had  been  tipsy, 
and  his  language  "very  free."  She  must  find  out 
from  Bob  Ranald  what  he  had  at  first  withheld,  that 
David  Yernour  was  an  exceptional  butcher — a  politician 
who  was  welcome  at  Wimbledon,  a  strong  speaker,   a 


66  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

superior  young  man.  He  had  taught  himself  French,  to 
read  Rousseau,  Latin,  "to  break  his  teeth  on  Livy." 
The  Government  was  said  to  have  an  eye  on  him,  and  this 
case  of  his  imprisonment  was  interesting  Cobbett.  A 
"man  called  Hazlitt"  was  said  to  be  foaming  at  the 
mouth  on  his  account  at  Winterslow,  in  Wilts,  and  Lord 
Sandgatc,  a  vehement  nobleman,  was  prepared  to  use  him 
as  a  flail  for  the  Westminster  threshing-floor,  if  he  could 
get  no  better.  Ranald  had  communicated  with  the  pris- 
oner, had  seen  him  twice,  and  had  heard  from  him.  He 
showed  Miss  Chambre  a  letter  from  him,  excellently 
turned,  firm  in  tone  and  full  of  spirit.  She  saw,  in  her 
mind's  eye,  the  young  man  writing  that — saw  the  stiff' 
set  of  his  head,  the  proud  eyes  of  him  which  "look 
through  you  and  see  that  you  are  nothing."  She  was  in- 
tensely interested,  full  of  passion  for  justice — and  yet 
she  did  nothing.  She  did  less  than  nothing :  she  was  even 
civil  to  Uncle  Morfa,  believing  him  a  sorry  little  knave, 
and  meek  to  her  grandmamma,  who,  she  was  sure,  was  a 
wicked  old  woman.  She  went  about  as  usual  from  ball 
to  ball,  gathering  tributes  and  dispensing  smiles.  Din- 
ners to  Princes  of  Wales,  signal  honours  of  an  alcove, 
dubious  honours  of  Mr.  Sheridan's  black  eyes,  duchesses' 
routs,  compliments  to  her  beauty,  men  of  fashion,  wits, 
dandies,  macaronis  in  circles  or  half  circles  about  her 
chair,  boxes  at  the  opera,  hats  off'  in  the  park,  queen's 
kisses,  princesses's  kisses — all  done  under  the  approving 
eye  of  an  old  wolfish  grandmamma  who — and  she  knew  it 


MISS  MOON'S  VIEW  67 

now — had  hated  her  father,  scorned  her  mother,  bullied 
a  thin  Harriet,  and  was  deliberately  keeping  an  in- 
jured man  untried  in  gaol,  and  intended  to  keep  him 
there !  There  were  hours  of  the  day,  hours  in  the  night, 
when  Miss  Chambre  felt  her  cheeks  on  fire,  and  suffered 
such  tumult  at  the  heart  that  she  knew  not  where  to  turn. 
How  was  this  to  be  explained?  Why  did  her  heart  beat, 
and  why  did  she  say  nothing?  The  explanation  is  a 
simple  one,  and  I  am  coming  to  it. 

First  of  all,  it  had  become  certain  that  Vernour  was  to 
be  kept  in  gaol,  and  not  brought  to  trial  until  Caryll 
House  chose.  She  gathered  this  beyond  doubt  by  over- 
hearing grandmamma  in  talk  with  Uncle  Morfa.  It 
was  in  the  library,  a  long  room  of  many  baj^s.  She  had 
come  in  for  a  book.  Lord  Morfa  stood  with  his  back  to 
the  fire ;  her  ladyship,  crutch  in  hand,  was  upright  in  a 
chair. 

"Do  nothing,  Roddy." — This  was  the  lady. — "Leave 
the  matter  in  my  hands.  The  man  must  be  punished  in 
the  proper  way." 

"Very  well,  ma'am — only,  mind  you,  I've  told  ^^ou 
what's  going  on.  The  Radicals  have  taken  it  up.  Cob- 
bett's  at  it,  and  Sandgate's  asking  questions  in  the 
House." 

"That  is  excellent.  The  IMinisters  must  answer  them. 
No  doubt  the  man's  a  Jacobin." 

"No  doubt  at  all,"  said  Lord  Morfa.  "I  happen  to 
know  he  is." 


68  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"If  anything  more  is  said  in  the  House,  I'll  see  that 
Mr.  Pcrcival  is  properly  instructed.  You  are  ill — Lord 
Edlogan's  ill:  nothing  can  be  done.  Bail  is  out  of  the 
question." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  ma'am.    Upon  my  honour " 

"Pardon  me,  Roddy,  but  I  know  perfectly  well.  I  have 
been  accustomed  all  my  life  to  deal  with  persons  of  the 
sort." 

Miss  Hermia  Mary  left  the  library  bookless,  and  in  a 
tempest  of  feeling.  Nothing  she  had  ever  heard  of — 
not  Lord  Edward's  death  in  Newgate — equalled  the  pur- 
posed tyranny  of  this.  What  would  Captain  Ranald  say 
to  it  ?  What,  alas !  could  he  do  but  impotently  rage, 
and  appeal  to  a  pitiless  heaven?  She  paced  the  long  cor- 
ridors of  Caryll  House,  ranged  the  suite  of  drawing- 
rooms,  those  famous  yellow  silk-damask  rooms,  mirrored, 
gilt-chaired,  glassy-floored:  she  felt  like  a  panther  in  a 
cage.  Had  her  eye  roamed  that  cedared  garden  and  seen 
that  gap  in  the  wall  of  spikes  it  is  not  impossible  that  she 
would  have  fled  the  shameful  scene.  Luckily  for  herself 
she  did  not,  but  did,  instead,  a  much  more  ordinary  thing. 
She  talked ;  girls  must  talk ;  and  there  was  nobody  but 
Harriet  Moon.  Talking  to  Harriet,  she  got  a  slap  on 
the  cheek — a  tonic  slap. 

A  thin  and  pale  girl  was  this  Harriet,  with  abundance 
of  dark  hair,  a  pathetic  mouth,  and  the  most  pleading 
brown  eyes  you  ever  saw  in  your  life.  Bound  hand  and 
foot  to  Lady  Morfa,  she  was  a  slave  who  did  her  best  to 


MISS  MOON'S  VIEW  6& 

keep  her  soul  alive  in  her  body,  but  did  it,  as  she  was 
forced,  in  furtive  ways  of  her  own  which  did  not  always 
commend  themselves  to  her  new-found  champion.  But 
what  little  she  had  been  able  to  win  for  herself  she  had 
won  by  waiting  for  it ;  she  was  cautious,  because  she  was 
timid,  and  reticent  in  self-defence.  She  was  really 
grateful  to  Hermia,  and  fond  of  her  as  far  as  she  could 
afford,  but  she  would  show  neither  gratitude  nor  affec- 
tion until  they  were  demanded  of  her.  Although  she  al- 
lowed herself  to  be  kissed,  and  liked  kissing  as  much  as 
anybody,  she  would  never  kiss  back  unless  she  was  in- 
vited. Perhaps  she  thought  to  enhance  the  value  of  her 
kisses  when  they  came  by  this  means — ^but  Miss  Hermia 
found  that  sort  of  thing  a  bore.  And  so  was  it  a  great 
bore  that  Harriet  could  hardly  be  forced  to  speak  her 
real  mind.  The  more  of  a  mind  she  had  the  less  easily 
could  she  be  forced.  She  uttered  herself  like  the  per- 
sonages of  modern  novels,  ending  her  sentences  with, 
dashes. 

Interrogated,  then,  with  passion  upon  the  butcher's 
wrongs  and  rights,  she  had  a  very  scared  look  in  her 
brown  eyes,  and  shrank  visibly  from  committing  herself 
upon  them.  But  to  direct  questions  of  the  Yes  or  No> 
order  she  had  to  reply  that  it  was  all  quite  true.  Her 
ladyship  did  intend  that  Vernour  should  stop  in  prison : 
bail  was  to  be  refused,  and  not  a  sixpence  paid  for  the 
horse — for  the  present.  How  long  could  this  go  on? 
She  really  hardly  knew.    Her  ladyship  would  decide  when 


70  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

the  young  man  was  sufficiently  punished.  Punished! 
Yes,  Miss  Chambre  might  be  assured  that  punishment 
was  intended. 

Miss  Chambre  found  herself  trembling  in  front  of 
Harriet. 

"Are  you  sure  of  this?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Chambre,  quite  sure." 

"But — oh,  heaven!    What's  to  be  done?" 

"I  really  could  not  say.  Miss  Chambre." 

Hermia  stamped  her  foot.  "You  madden  me  with  your 
*Miss  Chambres.*  Why,  the  man's  horse  was  killed — 
killed  by  Lord  Morf a — killed^  Harriet !" 

Harriet's  brown  eyes  were  veiled  by  her  fine, 
curved  lashes.  She  coloured  slightly — a  suffusion 
under  the  skin;  no  more.  "I  have  heard  that  it  was 
so." 

"And  do  you  tell  me  now  that  nothing  is  to  be  said  of 
that — no  admission,  no  apology?" 

"Apology!  Oh,  no,  indeed — none."  Harriet  was  now 
bold  enough  to  look  at  her  flaming  friend.  "Her  lady- 
ship is  convinced  of  a  plot — some  political  conspiracy 
against  the  family.  I  am  sure  she  will  do  nothing  now. 
Her  ladyship  is  very  angry  that  any  fuss  has  been  made 
— any  notice  taken  at  all.  Those  things — publicity, 
especially — always  make  her  indignant." 

Hermia  shinigged  her  shoulders.  "I  think  grand- 
mamma must  be  out  of  her  senses.  I  really  do,  Harriet. 
She  appears  to  believe  that  she  can  treat  people  worse 


MISS  MOON'S  VIEW  71 

than  cattle.  I  shall  tell  her  so.  I  shall !  Oh,  Harriet, 
what  can  I  do?" 

Harriet  made  very  free.  "If  jou  please — if  you  will 
excuse  me — - — " 

*'Yes,  yes,  of  course." 

"I  do  hope  that  you  will  say  nothing,  do  nothing  at  all. 
Great  harm  would  come  of  it.  Her  ladyship  is  peculiar, 
and  expresses  herself — occasionally — "  She  succumbed 
in  confusion.     Hermia  opened  her  eyes  wide. 

"Expresses  herself — !  Why  should  she  not?  Do  you 
mean  against  me?  Why  not?  What  could  she  sa}",  but 
call  me  a  little  Jacobin,  or  tell  me  not  to  talk  rubbish? 
Do  you  think  I  should  mind  that?" 

No — it  evidently  was  not  that;  it  was  worse,  much 
worse.  Harriet  really  could  not  bring  herself  to  say 
what  it  was ;  but  of  this  she  was  sure,  Miss  Chambre  would 
rue  the  day  when  she  spoke  to  her  ladyship  about  Ver- 
nour's  horse.  If  she  had  wished  to  be  bayed  like  a  hunted 
stag,  she  had  her  desire ;  for  now  she  was  made  to  speak. 

Holding  her  bosom,  staring  with  her  big  eyes,  she  stam- 
mered out  her  reading  of  Lady  Morfa's  mind.  "Her 
ladyship  Avould  say — oh,  how  can  I  tell  you?  I  have  no 
right — I  ought  not !  But  I  wish  to  save  you — you  have 
been  so  good  to  me — Hermia !  I  may  call  you  that !" 
She  was  now  in  tears,  so  plainly  distressed  that  it  seemed 
cruel  to  go  on  ;  but  Hermia  was  unrelenting,  though  kind 
about  it. 

"Please  tell  me  what  you  mean,  Harriet — and  don't  sup- 


72  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

pose  that  I  shall  misunderstand  you.  I  am  sure  you  mean 
me  a  service." 

Miss  Moon  called  heaven  to  witness  the  purity  of  her 
intentions,  and  with  sobs  proceeded.  "Her  ladyship 
would  say — dear  Hermia,  forgive  your  friend — that 
the  man  was  quite  a  common  person,  but  that,  of  course, 
he  was  very  handsome — and  that  you — that  you  had  re- 
marked upon  that — and — that  it  was  all  very  evident — " 
and  hereupon  she  dissolved  into  a  heap  on  the  carpet. 

INIiss  Chambre's  most  baffling  quality  was  her  simplicity. 
It  was  real  simplicity ;  she  read  things  as  they  were  spelt. 
To  this  uncomfortable  avowal  of  Harriet's,  then,  she  re- 
plied with  a  fit  of  pondering,  and  the  disconcerting  ad- 
mission, "Well,  but  he  was  handsome,  remarkably  so,  I 
thought.  And  what,  pray — .?"  but  there  she  stopped  in 
answer  to  a  look  from  Harriet's  eyes,  directed  at  her  from 
the  floor — a  look  which  she  had  never  seen  in  any  eyes 
before,  an  educated,  experienced  look — which  she  could 
read  without  any  spelling  at  all,  by  the  instinct  which 
young  women  have  and  don't  need  to  learn.  And  as  she 
received  this  look,  she  started  as  if  she  had  been  whipped 
over  the  face — started  and  stared,  and  stood  wondering, 
while  the  hot  colour  slowly  tided  over  her,  from  the  neck 
upwards  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  And  then  to  her  fierce- 
ness succeeded  mildness ;  and  then  she  turned  and  slowly 
left  the  room. 

As  for  Harriet  Moon,  it  is  to  be  observed  of  her  that 
she  rose  from  the  carpet,  and  for  some  time  after  her 


MISS  MOON^S  VIEW  73 

friend  had  left  her  walked  the  room  in  great  agitation, 
with  her  arms  crossed  over  her  bosom,  as  if  to  hug  her 
thought.  Her  sobbing  had  ceased,  her  eyes  were  bright, 
but  not  with  tears.  Occasionally  she  lifted  them  to 
heaven,  or,  let  me  say,  the  ceiling ;  and  at  such  times  licr 
face  wore  the  sort  of  expression  one  would  look  for  in 
that  of  a  virgin  martyr. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  WHICH   MISS  CHAMBRE  VEILS  HER  BLUSHES 

A  YOUNG,  ardent,  and  pretty  lady  may  decide  that 
her  grandmamma  is  a  vulgar-minded  old  woman  and 
rather  horriblle,  and  yet,  almost  in  the  same  flash  of  in«- 
dignation,  clearly  see  that  the  less  scope  she  offers  to  that 
vulgar  mind  the  better  for  all  concerned.  Love  of  jus- 
tice, tp  be  sure,  is  a  verj'^  fine  thing,  for  the  which  one 
should  gladly  go  through  fire  and  water ;  but  how  when 
the  fire  is  in  the  cheeks  ?  How  when  it's  the  eyes  that  are 
to  be  drowned?  It  is  a  curious  thing  that  the  noblest 
passion  of  women  is  the  one  which  they  can  least  bear 
to  have  imputed. 

When  Miss  Hermia  Mary  decided — as  she  did  without 
knowing  it — that  the  victim  must  languish  in  his  chains 
so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  she 
was  right.  Burning  cheeks,  flames  of  indignation  are  a 
credit  to  a  lady,  and  most  becoming ;  but  she  must  be  sure 
that  the  fires  are  vestal,  she  cannot  aff*o'rd  a  hint  against 
their  honesty.  Indeed,  the  moment  that  hint  is  possible, 
they  cease  to  become  honest ;  a  hard  saying,  but  so  it  is  in 
this  world.  Now,  at  Harriet's  interpretation  of  her 
grandmamma's  mind,  Miss  Chambre  had  been  first 
amazed,  then  scornful,  then  indignant;  but  at  the  dis- 


MISS  CHAMBRE  VEILS  HER  BLUSHES     75 

covery  of  her  educated  look,  that  piercing  look  of  an 
intelligence  beyond  her  own,  she  had  blushed  and  been 
mild.,  She  had  come  into  conflict  with  something  unsur- 
mised,  and  it  had  quelled  her.  A  seed  of  doubt  had  been 
sown  in  the  garden-plot  of  her  mind.  Like  Eve  in  an- 
other garden  long  ago,  she  could  no  longer  be  as  she  had 
been  now  that  she  knew  herself.  Like  Ev>e  in  that  garden 
of  long  ago,  she  ran  sheltering  into  the  brake,  and  made 
herself  an  apron  of  leaves. 

I  can't  pretend  to  exhibit  w^iat  is  not  to  be  seen.  How 
can  I  sa}^  what  her  private  mind  was  when  the  wild  young 
creature,  panic-struck,  was  cowering  in  covert?  I  don't 
suppose  she  dared  think  at  all ;  but  this  much  I  know, 
that  she  was  very  conscious  of  changed  relations  with 
some  of  her  little  world ;  that,  for  once,  she  went  in  awe 
of  her  grandmother :  that  she  was  no  longer  anxious  to 
hear  Captain  Ranald  upon  the  superiority  of  Vernour; 
that  she  wished  Lord  Rodono  to  talk  about  himself ;  and 
that,  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  dra^vn  nearer  to  Miss 
Harriet  Moon — to  become  friend  rather  than  patroness., 
She  did  what  she  had  never  done  in  her  life  before — even 
with  Mary  Fox— she  talked  with  Harriet  of  Lord 
Rodono's  attentions,  which  were  becoming  marked,  and 
of  other  allied  topics.  Love-affairs  had  been  abstractions 
to  her  hitherto,  the  conventions  of  novelists  and  poets, 
about  as  pertinent  to  life  as  the  blue  roses  and  blood-red 
leaves  upon  the  chintzes  of  3^our  bed.  But  now  you 
talked  of  them  under  your  breath,  and  best  in  the  twi- 


76  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

light  under  the  kindly  flicker  of  the  fire ;  now  you  became 
curiously  interested;  you  wondered,  you  paused  to  won- 
der, and  with  a  sigh  gave  over.  And  Harriet  proved  to 
be  an  expert;  so  Harriet  grew.  The  change  in  Harriet 
herself,  too,  was  very  subtle;  a  little  more  decision,  a 
good  deal  more  ease.  She  was  more  demonstrative,  she 
kissed  more ;  sometimes  she  touched  Hermia's  check,  a 
little  stroking  movement;  and  sometimes  her  arm  would 
steal  round  Hermia's  waist,  and  she  would  whisper.  She 
was  very  discreet ;  there  was  no  question  of  involving 
her  friend  in  a  common  guilty  secret;  tlie  change  in  her 
was  very  subtle,  but  it  was  there. 

All  this  time — not  a  word  to  Mary  Fox  in  Kilbride  of 
the  ^Tongs  of  A'^emour  and  his  murdered  horse. 

But  there  may  have  been  another  reason  for  that,  since, 
about  this  end  of  February,  there  arose  and  spread  over 
London  a  cloud  of  thick  darkness  which  may  well  have 
swallowed  up  such  troubles.  A  squalid  romance,  fester- 
ing long  in  semi-secret,  came  to  a  head,  and  was  rent.  It 
poisoned  the  moral  atmosphere ;  the  soul  sickened  of  that 
which  it  must  breathe  or  die.  What  was  Honour  if  a 
Duke  of  York  could  speak  of  it  as  his.^^  What  was  Love 
if  a  Mary  Ann  Clark  could  enjoy  it.'*  What  was  the  Jus- 
tice M'orth  whose  ministers  bandied  quips  with  the  crimi- 
nal; and  what  Reform  when  its  champions  were  leagued 
with  a  shameless  merchant  of  herself?  Stultifying  ques- 
tions which  the  cleanest  had  to  ask  themselves  in  that 
tainted  London  of  February  and  March,  when  the  town 


MISS  CHAJVIBRE  VEILS  HER  BLUSHES 


t  i 


could  talk  of  nothing  but  Mr.  Clark,  the  Rival  Princes, 
Colonel  Wardle,  and  Lord  Sandgate;  when  Throne, 
Church,  Legislature,  and  Executive  alike  uncovered 
their  sores,  and  there  seemed  no  difference  in  corruption 
between  arraigners  and  arraigned.  Wliat  wonder  if  a 
young  Eve,  cowering  in  covert,  was  terrified  out  of  her 
new-bought  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  when  evil  boasted 
of  its  goodness,  and  goodness  flaunted  its  core  of  evil? 
In  great  Whig  houses  there  was  much  appetite  for  the 
offal  cast  up.  The  Whigs,  like  Pilate,  had  washed  their 
hands,  and  could  afford  to  be  merry  at  the  expense  of 
of  Princes  and  their  bought  loves.  If  the  Duke  had 
bought  Mrs.  Clark,  might  she  not  buy  the  Duke.'*  And 
as  for  the  Jacobins,  exposing  the  precious  pair,  it  was 
not  surprising  that,  chemin  faisant,  they  should  expose 
themselves — bought  also,  in  the  very  act  of  buying. 
Old  Lady  IMorfa  and  her  friends  bickered  over  the 
affair  like  moulting  eagles  at  a  carrion,  and  spared 
neither  age  nor  sex  the  details  of  their  feast.  It  was  an 
age  of  strong  stomachs,  but  we  must  suppose  that  young 
ones  like  our  Miss  Hermia  were  troubled  with  qualms. 
Nothing  of  the  sort  could  hinder  Lady  IMorfa.  She  dis- 
cussed the  Duke  of  York  and  the  Danae  of  Gloucester 
Place  in  season  and  out.  She  said  of  the  Duke — Charles 
Fitz-Payn  reports  it — that  you  could  expect  no  less  of 
persons  who  could  eat — and  over-eat — in  public  than 
that  they  should  occasionally  be  sick  in  public ;  and  for 
her  part,  she  failed  to  see  that  tlie  rehef  was  more  dis- 


78  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

gusting  than  the  disease.  This  was  said  to  Lord  Crow- 
land,  who,  whatever  he  may  have  thought  of  its  taste,  did 
not  choose  to  impugn  its  truth.  But  he.  was  doubtful, 
he  said,  whether  the  present  deplorable  penance  was 
remedial.  "I  don't  attempt,"  he  said,  "to  disguise  from 
you  my  opinion  of  the  Exalted  Personage— nor  of  all 
such  Personages.  I  think  it  a  safe  inference  to  draw, 
that  a  king  may  be  dangerous  because  he  must  be  ridicu- 
lous. Now,  if  by  House  of  Commons'  pleasantries  you 
sho,w  him  to  be  preposterous,  the  possible  danger  be- 
comes a  certainty." 

But  Lady  Morfa  scouted  danger.  "Dangerous !  To 
exhibit  a  poltroon !  How  can  it  be  dangerous  ?  Do  we 
not  exist  by  maintaining  it.^^  We  brought  them  in  as 
much  for  this  kind  of  performance  as  for  any  other  that 
I  can  call  to  mind  at  the  moment." 

"Helot-kings,"  murmured  Fitz-Payn,  who  had  been 
dining  at  the  house.     "Helot-kings,  eli.?" 

"Precisely,"  said  her  ladyship,  sipping  her  tea. 
"Helot-kings  sooner  than  helot-people.  We  foresaw 
that  in  '89."  She  meant  1689,  of  course,  the  date  of  the 
Redemption   of  Mankind. 

Her  son,  the  young  Earl,  not  unconscious  that  he  had 
been  playing  helot-peer  of  late,  took  a  less  magisterial 
view.  Caryll  House  was  "precious  near"  to  Carlton 
House  in  more  senses  than  one ;  and  how  were  the  vexa- 
tions of  a  Frederick  of  York  going  to  affect  the  com- 
forts of  a  George  of  Wales?     Roderick  of  Morfa  did 


Miss  CHAMBRE  VEILS  HER  BLUSHES     79 

not  disguise  from  his  circle  that  his  ^oyal  friend  was  un- 
happy, '^rinny  is  touched,  ma'am,"  he  said  openly ; 
"he's  badly  hit— he'll  take  it  hard." 

Lord  Rodono  here  observed  that  he  was  taking 
it  at  Brighton;  but  the  Earl  had  rnor.e  anxieties  to 
consider. 

"What,"  he  cried,  turning  his  suffering  face  to  the 
ceiling  and  the  chandelier,  "What's  going  to  come  to 
Society,  ma'am,  if  women  of  the  town  are  to  be  asked 
about.''  You'll  find  j^our  Mrs.  Clark  at  Lord  B — 's  and 
Lord  S — 's ;  j^ou  raise  a  thousand  pound  for  your  Ann 
Taylor  because  she  had  a  rip  for  a  father  and  cried  in 
the  witness-box.  Damme,  and  what  I  say  is  this,  where 
are  we  going  to  be  one  of  these  days  ?  We  have  our  little 
troubles,  you  know.  We  may  have  tears  in  the  witness- 
box  before  long.  If  they  can  harry  a  Prince  of  the 
Blood,  I  s'pose  the}^  can  harry  a  peer — eh?" 

*'Never,"  said  Lady  ]\Iorf a  firmly ;  but  her  son  was  not 
appeased. 

"That's  what  Prinny  says,  ma'am.  And  Prinny's 
right,  as  he  always  is — saving  3'our  presence." 

"I  think  that  His  Royal  Highness  may  leave  our  af- 
fairs to  me,"  said  Lady  Morfa,  with  great  decision,  and 
the  conversation  dropped  by  consent. 

If  the  private  sanctities  of  the  most  exalted  persons  are 
to  be  outraged,  if  peers  are  to  be  flouted  at  their  own 
gates,  where  is  the  British  Constitution,  and  how  is  that 
to  stand  ?    You  attack  the  Throne,  j^ou  attack  the  House 


80  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

of  Lords ;  is  there  not  a  danger  here  ?  Do  you  not  dis- 
locate the  Fabric  ?  These  were  the  questions  put  to  Miss 
Chambre  by  her  early  acquaintance,  Mr.  Aloysius  Banks, 
poet  and  flail  of  poets, 

Mr.  Banks,  hovering  on  the  brink  of  the  great  Clark 
affair  and  the  allied  topic  of  the  butchei-'s  horse,  could 
not  deny  himself  the  privilege  of  instructing  so  lovely 
a  being.  Moreover,  it  had  been  at  her  intercession  that 
&  Norman  house,  one  of  the  most  guarded  in  London, 
had  opened  its  great  gates  to  him — not  to  dine,  it's  true, 
hut  to  a  party,  to  mingle  familiarly  with  those  who  had 
dined.    He  felt  a  glow,  and  he  exhaled  it. 

He  pointed  out  that  no  number  of  private  wrongs  could 
justify  a  public  wrong;  that  England  was  a  great  na- 
tion whose  citadel  had  been  reared  by  centuries  of  heroic 
suffering.  The  blood  of  the  martyrs — let  it  flow,  let  it 
flow!  Thus  would  the  Ck>nstitution  flourish.  The  body- 
politic,  that  wondrous  harmony  of  King — Lords — Com- 
mons, must  endure  throughout  the  ages,  cost  what  it 
might  in  the  blood  of  beasts — ^he  meant  the  butcher's 
horse — or  the  groans  of  stricken  men — he  meant  the 
butcher.  The  Constitution  was  a  lighthouse  on  a  rock 
at  sea,  upholding  the  ray  above  tumult  and  riot,  INIen 
might  drown  on  their  floating  spars,  a  ship  might 
founder,  and  homes  be  desolate;  but  they  of  the  House 
must  feed  the  flame — ^tbeai)  duty  first  and  last.  Let  the 
appointed  vestals — he  meant  Lords  Morf  a  and  Edlogan 
— see  to  it.    Public  opinion  would  support  them,  tliough 


MISS  CHAMBRE  VEILS  HER  BLUSHES     81 

faction  should  snarl — he  meant  the  butcher — and 
grudge  them  service — he  meant  the  butcher's  horse. 

Miss  Chambre  neither  flushed  nor  paled,  ha^-ing  opin- 
ions of  her  OTVTi  upon  these  matters,  and  being  patrician 
enough  to  ignore  those  of  a  Mr.  Banks  if  thej  did  not 
coincide.  I  think  that  she  was  never  so  inveterate  a 
Caryll  as  when  she  played  Jacobin.  She  had  no  inten- 
tion of  entering  debate  with  Mr.  Banks,  and  when  Lord 
Rodono  came  up  with  a  bow  and  a  kiss  for  her  hand, 
she  rose,  took  his  arm,  and  left  the  philosopher. 

"Wlio's  3'our  mortified  friend?"  she  was  asked,  and 
explained  him,  a  critic  who  as  good  as  owned  to  having 
slain  a  poet.  Lord  Rodono  tliought  it  very  possible  that 
he  had  also  eaten  him  and  found  that  he  disagreed;  and 
then  he  went  on  to  speak  of  Vernour  and  his  horse. 
That  case  was  growing  to  be  a  scandal ;  here  was  March 
upon  us,  and  no  thought  of  a  trial.  It  would  end  by 
making  him  a  Radical,  he  said,  and  then  he  would  move 
for  a  Habeas  Corpus.  "Cobbett's  at  it  now,*'  he  told 
her,  "and  is  going  to  be  nast3%  I'll  tell  you  how  I  know 
that.     He's  speaking  the  truth." 

"Do  you  mean  that  that  is  not  his  practice  .f'" 

"This  is  what  I  mean.  YVIien  Cobbett  has  a  bad  case, 
he's  not  above  improving  it.  He'll  drag  in  the  Orders 
in  Council,  or  the  Six  Acts,  or  Smut  in  the  Hops,  or  the 
Pension  Lists — anything.  But  here  he  feels  that  he  has 
a  good  one — too  good  to  touch.  Fll  show  you  the 
Register — pretty   strong  writing.      He  gives   the  bare 


82  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

facts  in  twenty  lines  of  print,  and  no  more.  I  tell  you  it 
looks  bad.    There's  to  be  a  shindy.     I  feel  it  in  the  air." 

Miss  Chambre  no  longer  faced  him  as  of  late — like  the 
young  Diana,  as  he  had  been  pleased  to  think,  as  tense  as 
her  bowstring.  She  looked  down  at  her  foot  tracing  pat- 
flems  on  the  carpet,  and  with  her  head  thus  hung  asked 
him,  What  she  ought  to  do? 

The  question  flattered  him,  for  he  was  falling  in  lo\^ ; 
but  he  had  nothing  heroic  to  propose.  "Whatever  you 
do  will  do  justice  harm.  You'll  make  it  worse  for  the 
fellow ;  and  you'll  make  the  very  mischief  for  yourself. 
Surely  you  see  that?  Motives  will  be  imputed.  Look 
at  this  infernal  affair  in  the  House.  Do  you  see  that  man 
over  there?"  She  looked  in  the  direction  intended,  and 
saw  a  tall,  thin,  and  pale  gentleman  with  intensely  black 
hair,  and  eyes  like  Mr.  Sheridan's,  who  stood  talking  to 
nobody  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  "That's  Sandgate,'* 
he  told  her.  "That's  the  fellow  who  doesn't  understand 
that  the  Rights  of  Man  won't  do  here.  If  he  gets  to 
know  that  you  are  at  loggerheads  with  your  family  in 
this,  Sandgate'll  make  a  handle  of  you  without  mercy. 
He's  a  fanatic — he's  dangerous  because  he's  no  scruples. 
He  says  that  if  you  are  for  cleaning  up  the  British 
Constitution  you  can't  afford  to  wear  gloves." 

She  had  heard  of  Lord  Sandgate,  whose  conduct  in  the 
Clark  affair  had  made  scandal ;  she  observed  him  with  in- 
terest. He  was  bowing  to  a  great  lady  at  the  moment, 
stooping  over  her  hand.     She  remarked  upon  his  air  of 


MISS  CHAiMBRE  VEILS  HER  BLUSHES     83 

breeding.  Oh,  Rodono  would  allow  that  he  was  a  gentle- 
man. 

"What  else  can  a  man  be?"  said  she. 

"Well,  he  can  be  a  regicide,"  said  Rodono. 

"And  is  Lord  Sandgate  a  regicide?" 

"Ah,  I  don't  go  so  far  as  that.  But  I  will  affirm  that 
if  he  could  induce  certain  distinguished  persons  to  felo 
de  S3,  he  would  be  satisfied  with  the  day's  work.  He's 
perfectly  sincere,  mind  you,  aad  that  is  why  he's  dan- 
gerous. He  truW  believes  that  Castlereagh  is  a  villain- — 
which  is  nonsense ;  and  is  sure  that  the  Wellesle3's  have 
England  by  the  throat.  He  strangles  in  his  own  stock 
when  he  remembers  it." 

He  returned  to  he<r  own  affairs,  and  the  more  readily  be- 
cause he  found  a  new  note  in  her  which  charmed  him, 
a  note  of  timidity,  of  maiden  bashfulness,  of  softness. 
Beautiful  as  he  had  alwa3"s  found  her,  he  had  sometimes 
thought  her  over  bold.  There  was  nothing' of  the  sort  in 
her  now. 

"Don't  upset  yourself,"  he  told  her.  "I'll  do  what  I 
can.  He  must  be  got  out,  of  course — and  he  shall  be. 
But  I'll  muzzle  old  Cobbett  and  send  Bob  Ranald  off  to 
sea.  I'll  do  everything — anything — for  you."  He  felt 
very  tender,  and  stopped  himself  there;  but  when  she 
gave  him  her  hand  he  held  it  for  a  moment. 

"You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  she  said  Mhen  she  had  re- 
covered her  hand.  "I  am  grateful,  indeed.  I  feel  so 
much  alone  here.      My  people — even   my  brother — see 


84  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

things  differently.  I  have  no  one  to  talk  with  of  what 
papa  and  I  were  always  full — ^I  mean  right  things,  noble 
things — justice  and — equality.  Oh!"  she  cried  out,  and 
her  eyes  filled ;  "this  is  a  horrible  place." 

It  was  comical,  he  felt,  though  he  was  a  good  deal 
touched  by  it,  A  fellow  the  more  in  gaol — and  a  lovely 
girl  in  tears  for  him!  What  the  devil  was  it  all  about.'' 
I  think  it  shows  how  puzzled  he  was  that  he  began  to 
want  to  dispose  of  her  somehow.  He  advised  her  to  go 
do^vn  to  Petersham,  to  his  sister  Grizel  and  her  crocuses. 
She  should  go  down  and  stay — Grizel  would  be  proud. 
"Take  yourself  down  there,"  he  said,  "and  make  your- 
self comfortable.  It's  a  pretty  place,  and  nobody  in  it 
but  Grizel  and  the  parent."  The  parent  was  the  Earl 
of  Drem. 

Hermia  thanked  him.  Yes,  she  would  like  tliat,  if 
Lady  Grizel  would  not  mind  and  grandmamma  would 
allow  it.  But  grandmamma  had  ideas  about  young 
ladies'  escorts.  Did  Lord  Rodono  think  that  Harriet 
IMoon  would  do  for  chaperon?  He  thought  she 
would  do  excellently.  "I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  said,  "I'll 
drive  you  down,  if  you'll  come.  Let's  go  and  ask  my 
lady." 

Grandmamma  was  found  to  be  in  a  good  humour. 
Moon  might  go,  certainly,  she  said,  if  Hermia  wished  it. 
She  had  no  immediate  use  for  Moon.  But  Lord 
Rodono's  coachmanship  was  plainly   declined. 

So  in  due  time  Miss  Hermia  went  down  to  Petersham, 


MISS  CHA^IBRE  VEILS  HER  BLUSHES    85 

to  hide  and,  she  hoped,  to  bury  hei*  troubles — in  the 
Caryll  chariot,  with  Moth  in  the  rumble ;  and  found 
Lady  Grizel  among  her  crocuses,  a  sandy-haired,  gentle 
lady  of  certain  years  and  fixed  views  upon  marriage. 
Lord  Drem  was  "somewhere  about,"  spudding  daisies  on 
a  lawn. 


CHAPTER  IX 

AVHICn   BRINGS    LORD   MORFA    TO   PETERSHAM 

13EACEFUL  days,  balmy  of  spring,  of  crocuses,  bud- 
"^  ding  lilacs,  bursting  thorn,  live  green  vistas,  suc- 
ceeded;  days  of  rest,  refreshment,  and  the  readjustment 
of  balances  warped  by  London.  The  young  novice  in 
affairs  recovered  her  tone,  and  with  that  her  virgin 
acerbity ;  before  the  end  of  this  chapter  she  will  be  found 
— contacta  nulUs  ante  cupid'mibus — hectoring  Harriet 
Moon,  much  as  her  prototj'pe,  the  Huntress  of  Arcady, 
rated  the  too-fond  Callisto.  Politics  were  unknown  at 
Petersham,  for  Lprd  Drem  thought  of  nothing  but  short- 
horns and  Border  antiquities,  and  to  Lady  Grizel  horti- 
culture was  almost  a  guilty  passion.  She  was,  for  the 
rest,  an  amiable  lady,  incurably  placid,  who  apparently 
set  no  bounds  to  her  philanthropy.  She  had  Harriet 
Moon  knitting  comforters  for  orphans  before  she  had 
been  in  the  house  four  and  twenty  hours,  and  bade  her 
guests  good-night  at  ten  o'clock  to  go  and  sit  up  until 
daylight  with  one  of  the  maids,  who  had  a  quinsy  and 
was  feverish.  But  her  influence  was  no  mere  sedative ; 
it  was  corrective  and  tonic.  If  she  had  no  predilections 
for  politics,  she  had  no  prejudices  either.  The  monu- 
mental inertia  cf  the  Whigs  did  not  make  her  angry, 


LORD  MORFA  AT  PETERSHAjM  87 

tiie  gusty  strivings  of  the  reformers  after  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth  only  made  her  smile.  Silly  folk!  when 
the  ribes  was  in  flower  and  the  bees  hung  about  it.  She 
was  some  years  older  than  her  brother  Rodono,  and  as- 
sured Hermia  that  she  had  known  a  great  deal  more  of 
Lord  Edward  than  he  ever  had.  "I  knew  him  well 
enough  to  love  him,"  she  said,  "and  to  see  tliat  he  was  a 
perfect  little  goose.  He  had  his  flowers  at  Frascati,  and 
his  Pamela,  and  his  devoted,  dear,  foolish  mamma — what 
more  could  the  man  want?"  For  all  that,  she  was  pleased 
to  know  that  Rodono  had  joined  the  Reformers.  Hermia 
had  not  known  it,  but  such  was  the  fact.  There  had 
been  a  dinner  at  Sir  Francis's,  in  Piccadilly,  and  a  meet- 
ing at  the  Crown  and  Anchor,  where  Rodono,  introduced 
by  Mr.  Ranald,had  spoken — quite  well.  "It  seems  that  this 
is  your  doing,  my  dear,"  she  continued,  "and  honestl}' 
I'm  much  obliged  to  you.  It  will  give  the  dear  fellow 
something  to  do  and  keep  him  out  of  mischief.  Since  he 
left  the  army  he's  thought  of  little  but  horses.  I've  been 
uneasy  about  him." 

Miss  Chambre  had  been  confused  at  this  revelation  of 
her  influence,  but  Lady  Grizel  seemed  to  have  no  doubts. 
"Tom  thinks  very  highly  of  you,Hermia,and  I  cannot  see 
why  you  should  not  be  told.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  make 
him  serious,  and  no  real  harm  can  come  to  him.  He's  not 
like  Mr.  Ranald  at  all — not  the  kind  whom  they  send  to 
the  Tower.  He's  very  amusing,  but  that  is  because 
everything  amuses  him — even  politics.     I'm  sure  it's  a 


88  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

very  good  thing,  since  he  has  to  be  in  Parhament.  It 
wouldn't  amuse  me  at  all — at  least,  it  hasn't  hitherto. 
But  if  Rodono  is  to  be  a  Refonner,  I  suppose  I  must 
see  what  I  can  do." 

Old  Lord  Drcm  took  much  ojff  his  daughter's  tolerant 
view.  When  he  had  been  Rodono's  age,  he  admitted,  he 
had  been  involved  in  politics,  but  now  he  knew  better.  "I 
do  not  often  find  myself  in  agreement  with  Monsieur  Vol- 
taire," he  told  Hermia,  "but  I  must  say  that  if  everybody 
was  as  good  a  gardener  as  Grizel  there  would  be  no  poli- 
tics, because  there  would  be  no  time  for  them.  I  am  told 
that  your  bright  eyes,  my  dear,  have  turned  my  son  to 
digging  other  people's  ground.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that 
he'll  dig  more  vigorously  there  than  he  has  done  in  his  own 
seed-plot.  Curiosity  will  help  him,  possibly.  No,  no, 
I  make  no  complaints  of  your  brother,  Grizel — don't 
think  it.  But  I  fail  to  see  how  a  young  man  can  remove 
motes  if  he  has  showTi  no  disposition  to  engage  with 
beams — the  Scriptures  are  with  me,  I  believe — and 
I  doubt  whether  much  will  come  of  it.  A  Reformer, 
you  tell  me?  Well,  well,  we  are  all  of  us  that,  I 
hope." 

This  was  all  very  wholesome  and  tonic.  It  reduced 
murdered  horses  to  nonual  proportions,  and  bare-headed 
young  heroes  too.  When  Lord  Rodono  paid  the  ladies 
a  visit,  he  found  that  he  could  make  himself  welcome 
without  fresh  details  of  tyranny ;  and  as  he  had  nothing 
to  report,  he  was  glad  to  be  spared  the  pains  of  inven- 


LORD  MORFA  AT  PETERSHA:M  89 

tion.  He  rowed  them  on  the  river  and  talked  nonsense — 
a  much  better  plan. 

But  another  visitor — shot  suddenl}^  out  of  the  blue,  in  a 
dog-cart  of  a  bright  red  colour,  with  two  skittish  chest- 
nuts driven  tandem — caused  a  great  commotion  among 
the  Petersham  crocuses.  This  was  Lord  Morf  a's  appari- 
tion, not  to  be  accounted  for  by  avuncular  interest  in  Miss 
Chambre,  nor  by  esteem  for  Lady  Grizel's  virtues.  How- 
ever, he  came,  he  descended  from  his  cart  wonderfully  ar- 
rayed, was  exceedingly  affable  to  the  ladies,  and  full  of 
explanations.  He  had  brought,  he  said,  letters  for  Hermy 
and  various  messages  from  her  grandmother ;  he  hoped 
that  Lady  Grizel  would  forgive  the  scant  ceremony 
which  he  had  shown  her.  But  town  was  monstrously 
dull,  upon  his  word  of  honour,  and  he  owned  that  he  had 
jumped  at  the  chance  of  doing  Hermy  a  service,  prin- 
cipally because  it  would  serv^e  his  own  purpose  exactly. 
The  country  was  his  passion,  it  would  seem ;  he  was  never 
so  happy  as  when  he  was  at  Wrensham  or  Morfa,  or 
some  of  his  places.  Flowers  now!  No  one  could  help 
liking  flowers.  Lady  Giizel  must  give  liim  some 
wrinkles ;  she  must,  indeed — and  he  would  take  notes. 
He  dared  not  trust  his  memory. 

He  really  did  his  best  to  be  agreeable,  and  was  so  happy 
that  he  became  so.  Hermia  had  never  liked  him  so  well ; 
he  was  turned  into  a  frolicsome  youth  in  place  of  the 
withered,  young-old  dandy  he  showed  to  be  in  London. 
He  took  the  two  girls  out  in  the  tandem-cart,  ate  curds 


90  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

and  whey  at  Richmond,  patted  the  shorthorns,  admired 
the  crocuses,  and  listened  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
to  Lord  Drem's  account  of  his  researches  into  the  Raid 
of  the  Reidswire,  which  Ritson  had  so  needlessly  ob- 
scured. When,  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  Miss 
Chambre  retired  to  read  her  letters,  she  left  him  under 
this  learned  torment,  bearing  it  like  a  little  gentleman. 
(He  called  Lord  Drem  "sir,"  and  she  had  thought  that 
admirable. )  But  when  she  paused  presently  in  her  writ- 
ing, and  looked  out  of  the  window,  there  he  was  disap- 
pearing up  the  long  grass  walk  with  Harriet  Moon.  It 
was  then  that  Hermia  remembered  the  tell-tale  brown 
eyes.    What  did  this  mean.'' 

Lord  ]\Iorfa  stayed  to  dinner,  sat  after  it  with  his  host, 
drank  tea  with  the  ladies,  heard  Harriet  sing  and  Lady 
Grizel  play  the  harp,  and  did  not  take  himself  away  until 
near  ten  o'clock.  They  heard  his  post-horn  after  that 
as  far  as  Richmond  Hill.  Harriet  sat  in  her  friend's 
room,  plainly  listening  for  it — tense  and  bright  by  the 
open  window — until  Hermia  drove  her  to  bed  in  order 
that  she  might  get  into  her  own.  But  there,  though  she 
lay  snug  enough,  she  was  by  no  means  able  to  sleep.  She 
had  seen  much  in  the  course  of  that  evening;  Uncle 
]\Iorfa's  attentions  were  not  to  be  mistaken ;  nor,  if  un- 
easy fingers,  downcast  eyes,  ajid  sidelong  looks  at  the 
company  were  any  evidence,  was  it  possible  to  doubt  that 
Harriet  was  flattered.  Poor,  foolish  Harriet — ^but 
really,  what  was  to  be  done.'*    Oh,  nothing,  nothing!     "I 


LORD  MORFA  AT  PETERSHA^I  91 

can't  tilt  at  all  Uncle  IMorfa's  windmills,"  she  groaned, 
restless  in  her  bed.  "The  little  wretch  sets  them  up  like 
mushrooms."  Well,  but  was  a  poor  brown-eyed  Harriet, 
who  had  barely  snatched  her  soul  from  the  talons  of  a 
grandmamma,  now  to  place  it,  a  trembling  gift,  into  the 
paws  of  an  Uncle  Morfa,  of  a  crony  of  the  Prince's.'' 
Very  doubtful  tales  were  whispered  about  this  young 
man — she  knew  just  that  much  and  no  more.  She  re- 
membered now  again  his  conduct — above  all,  his  ap- 
pearance— in  the  Vernour  affair.  Atrocious  !  Did  it  not 
stamp  him  finally? 

And  yet  he  had  been  charming  that  afternoon^ — for  all 
the  world  like  a  boy  home  for  the  holidays.  If  that, 
after  all,  were  the  real  Morfa  .f*  No — there  had  been  a 
reason  for  that.  He  could  stoop  to  please  when  he 
wanted  something — all  his  kind  could.  He  wanted  Har- 
riet, it  appeared;  did  not  that  prove  him  a  monster.'* 
Harriet — a  little  amanuensis — who  cried  in  corridors  and 
had  experience  behind  her  eyes.  There  was  another  Lord 
Morfa,  wicked,  tipsy,  passionate.  She  grew  hot  all  over 
as  the  initial  scene  of  her  entry  into  London  came  back 
to  her.  Too  surely  that  was  the  real  jMorfa — that  swear- 
ing, over-dressed  lad,  swung  like  a  rag-doll  by  David 
Vernour — a  man,  he,  if  ever  there  was  a  man.  Start 
that  young  man  bare  in  the  lists,  and  he  would  give  an ' 
account  of  himself  above  all  the  Morfas,  Crowlands, 
Rodonos  of  this  world.  Whereas — strip  Uncle  Morfa  of 
his  high-waisted  coat  and  rolled  collar,  unwind  his  great 


92  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

stock,  pull  him  dowTi  from  his  curricle,  and  what  was 
there  left  but  a  little  white-faced  boy  of  unwholesome 
tastes?  Such  thoughts  as  these  inflamed  her  and  upset 
her  crocus-resL 

In  the  morning  Harriet,  after  much  hesitation,  and,  as 
if  driven  by  a  kind  of  fate,  opened  upon  Lord  Morfa's 
visit.  ^  -  >  "I  heard  tlie  horn  at  midnight,  Hermy," 
she  said — her  face  not  to  be  seen.  She  was  leaning 
on  tlie  ledge  of  tlie  window  looking  out  towards  Rich- 
mond. 

"Then  you  must  have  listened  for  it,  my  dear,"  she  was 
briskly  told. 

"Oh,  Hermy  !  indeed " 

"Why  should  you  be  hurt?  But  I  think  you  are  a 
goose,  for  all  that-  Why  should  he  blow  horns  at  mid- 
night ?  And  he  drives  like  the  wind-  It  is  the  one  thing 
he  can  do." 

"Oh,  Hermy,  you  are  unfair.  But — you  think  he 
drove  directly  to  town.^  I  could  not  help  fancying. 
.    .   .  Do  you  think  he  did.''" 

"I  don't  tliiuk  about  him  at  alL    Why  should  I.?" 

"No,  no — of  course  not.     Why  should  you.?" 

"Harriet,  do  you.''" 

The  girl  turned  a  blenched  faoe  from  the  window  where 
she  sat. 

"Oh,  never,  never,  Hermy,  I  vow  to  you — oh,  never, 
never,  never !  How  could  I  dare  to  lift  up  my  eyes  ?  He 
is  most  kind  to  me — all  that  is  kind.    I  think  of  him  with 


LORD  MORFA  AT  PETERSHA:M  93 

gratitude  and  respect.  To  me — to  such  as  I  am — he 
must  ever  be  noble — and  splendid-  Oh,  what  must  you 
think  of  me !" 

She  was  vehemently  on  the  defensive — too  vehemently. 
She  looked  fierce  and  tragic — fierce  and  tragic  about 
Lord  jMorf a !  And  what  on  earth  did  she  mean  by 
her  "noble  and  splendid".''  Hermia's  hp  curved  in 
scorn. 

"Noble !  Splendid !  I  don't  think  you  can  know  what 
those  words  mean.  Is  it  possible  that  you  beheve  him 
noble  and  splendid.'"' 

Harriet  quailed.  "You  mean  about — I  know  what  you 
mean  now.  I  don't  understand  how  you  take  such  an  in- 
terest in —  But,  of  course,  in  your  position —  May  I  say 
that  you  are  severe.'"' 

"I  don't  think  that  you  may.  IVIr.  Vemour  has  been  in 
gaol  for  six  weeks.  And  Lord  Morfa  disports  himself 
here !" 

Harriet  could  be  bold  on  occasion,  it  seemed.  She  de- 
fended Lord  Morfa.  "It  was  because  of  the  indignity ; 
he  could  not  suffer  it.  A  scuffle — within  his  own  gates !" 
And  now  Miss  Chambre  stared — her  Dian  look. 

"You  use  very  strange  words,  I  think.  Indignit}- ! 
How  can  there  be  indignity  done  to  what  has  no  dig- 
nity.?" Harriet  was  driven  to  her  last  trench;  but  she 
tried  a  shift  or  two. 

"You  press  me  hard — not  very  kindly.  I  can't  an- 
swer vou,  and  I  oucrlit  not.     Lord  ]\Iorfa  is  vour  rela- 


94  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

live — you  may  say  what  you  please  of  him ;  but  he  is  the 
son  of  my  benefactress,  of  my  patroness — I  will  ask  you 
to  remember  that." 

"  Miss  Chambre  thawed  at  once.  "You  dear  creature, 
I'm  a  wretch — and  you're  very  loyal.  That's  what  I 
try  to  be.  We  see  things  differently.  Forgive  me." 
Harriet  was  allowed  to  cry  upon  her '  bosom — but 
Hermia  had  no  more  to  say  to  her  of  Lord  ]Morfa,  or 
of  anybody  else. 

That  afternoon  marks  a  stage  in  her  career.  She  went 
into  the  library  after  luncheon,  searched  for  the  book  of 
her  mind,  found  it,  and  never  stirred  until  she  had  finished 
it.  She  read  every  word,  from  its  sublime  initial  fallacy 
to  the  end  of  the  first  part — rhetoric  or  sophistry,  what 
you  choose  to  call  it,  it  was  necromancy  to  her ;  at  every 
strophe  of  its  exalted  argument  shapes  rose,  shapes  sank, 
as  their  essential  manhood  was  revealed  beneath  their 
rent  vesture. 

"Titles  are  but  nicknames,  and  every  nickname  is  a 
title.  The  thing  is  perfectly  harmless  in  itself ;  but  it 
marks  a  sort  of  foppery  in  the  human  character,  which 
degrades  it.  .   .   .  " 

"The  French  constitution  says.  There  shall  be  no 
titles ;  and  of  consequence,  all  that  class  of  equivocal 
generation  is  done  away ;.  and  the  peer  is  exalted  into 
Man.  ..." 

"It  is  properly  from  the  elevated  mind  of  France  that 
the  folly  of  titles  has  fallen.     It  has  outgrown  the  baby 


LORD  MORFA  AT  PETERSHAM  95 

cloaths  of  Count  and  Duke,  and  breeched  itself  in  man- 
hood:' 


Breeched  itself  in  manhood !  O  rare  Tom  Paine !  She 
arose  from  her  perusal  and  paced  the  library  in  a  state  of 
indescribable  exaltation.  She  knew  that  she  was  trem- 
bling, and  she  knew  why.  The  Rights  of  Man,  to  what 
ai*m  can  carve,  or  brain  wield,  or  heart  command — she 
owned  to  them  all.  The  Rights  of  Woman,  what  were 
they?  To  what  heart  can  crave,  and  soul  need,  and  body 
supply.  And  all  these  rights  could  be  reduced  to  two: 
the  Right  of  JMan  to  take,  and  of  Maid  to  give. 

Lady  Grizel  came  to  find  her  out,  to  take  her  for  a 
w^alk.  They  were  to  go  to  Twickenham  to  visit  in  a 
clergyman's  family.  The  good  man's  lady  had  recently 
presented  him  with  a  child — -a  fine  little  boy.  Wholesome 
descent  from  the  heights  for  bur  young  energumen. 
Lady  Grizel  might  always  be  trusted  for  that  sort  of 
tiling. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN   WHICH    WE   SEE   FAMILY    MAGNANIMOUS 

r  I  "^  HE  memory  of  Jane  Countess  of  Morf a  will  un- 
■*■  doubtedly  endure  in  the  minds  of  all  those  to  whom 
the  Regency  day  appeals,  either  as  the  end  of  the  old  or 
the  beginning  of  the  new  English  order,  and  substantial 
justice  will  be  done  to  her  if  she  is  recorded  as  a  strong- 
hold of  Privilege,  one  of  the  flanking  towers  of  that 
Bastille,  built  in  1688,  shaken  in  1789,  and  condemned 
as  unsafe  in  1832.  A  tower  she  was,  one  of  the  last  to 
yield  to  time  and  the  age,  and  yielding,  when  she  must, 
inch  by  inch.  We  shall  have  to  see  her  at  it.  But  as  I 
desire  to  remind  the  reader  that  she  was  a  human  being, 
as  well  as  an  Institution,  I  must  declare  that  she  was  by 
no  means  without  some  natural  emotions.  She  loved  her 
children  and  her  children's  children,  and  would  have 
fought  for  them  as  keenly  as  any  woman  born.  She  had 
real  benevolence,  too,  for  other  inhabitants  of  our  globe 
— ^her  cousin  Sefton,  her  friend  Lord  Crowland,  her 
county  neighbour  the  Duke,  and  her  brother,  the 
IMarquis  of  Badlesmere.  If  she  stopped  there,  more  or 
less- — and  she  did — it  was  not  because  she  had  exhausted 
the  world  of  objects  of  interest,  but  because  you  can't 
love  people  in  masses  unless  you  are  a  philanthropist  or 


FAMILY  INIAGNANIMOUS  97 

a  clergyman.  She  was  neither.  The  world,  no  doubt, 
did  contain  so  many  millions  of  souls,  souls,  indeed,  resi- 
dent in  persons  whom  one  met  in  society  or  heard  of  in 
the  House  of  Lords ;  she  had  no  reason  to  dispute  that, 
and  no  concern.  But  these  were  hirelings,  after  all — 
and  one  does  not  precisely  love  one's  housemaids.  These 
millions  were  of  the  sort  whom,  in  one  way  or  another, 
one  paid  to  do  things  for  one.  A  Secretary  of  State? 
Well,  one  pays  him.  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley?  He  is  for 
hire.  A  king,  a  king  son's,  an  archbishop,  a  Chancellor.'' 
*^My  dear  lord,"  she  would  say  in  her  scissor-tones, 
"there  is  no  difference  in  kind  between  the  Prince  of 
Wales  and  my  mantua-maker.  Li  degree  there  is  much, 
and  highly  in  favour  of  Madame  Pelerine.  She  is  not 
nearly  so  extravagant,  and  does  her  work  cheerfully." 
This  beincT  so,  and  I  do  but  state  it  as  I  find  it,  it  ma^- 
be  conceived  how  her  philosophy  had  been  disturbed  of 
late,  since  she  had  been  forced  to  recognise  the  existence 
of  a  person — a  tradesman  and  a  butcher — in  grief  for 
his  son,  and  of  such  a  man's  son  in  gaol,  awaiting  his 
trial.  The  lion  in  the  fowler's  net  is  a  good  enough 
parallel.  She  ran  through  a  swelling  series  of  shocks ; 
she  had  been  surprised,  amused,  amazed,  interested,  in- 
credulous, bored  by  turns.  Then  presently  she  grew 
angry,  and  at  last  all  her  phases  of  feeling,  churning  in 
her  bile,  drove  in  and  in  upon  her  nature,  and  she  felt 
nothing  but  a  deep-set  resentment  at  the  infamy  which 
dared  to  threaten  her.    She  was  goaded  into  action.    Dis- 


98  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

gusted  at  every  step,  she  ordered  the  Caryll  host ;  and  her 
disgust,  far  from  paralysing  her  efforts,  gave  them  vehe- 
mency  and  persistence.  Her  way  was  made  unex- 
pectedly easy  by  the  news  that  Vernour  was  of  the  Re- 
form party ;  this  had  but  to  be  known  in  the  right  quar- 
ter. She  never,  in  so  many  words,  gave  Justice  the  nod ; 
no  direct  message  was  ever  sent  to  any  one ;  she  did  her 
business  much  too  well  for  that.  It  got  to  be  understood 
that  young  Vernour  was  a  seditious  rogue,  better  in  the 
King's  Bench — and  there  young  Vernour  lay  from  Jan- 
uary until  the  middle  of  March. 

She  was  not  vindictive — vengeance  upon  a  tradesman, 
absurd ! — but  she  was  very  angry,  and  sure  that  she  did 
Avell.  Mr,  Aloysius  Banks,  of  The  Edinburgh  Reviezc, 
took  leave  to  agree  with  her.  Sharp  examples  were 
necessary  if  persons  were  to  be  taught  their  places  in  the 
scheme  of  polity,  in  these  times  above  all  when  Clamour 
and  Faction  had  combined  against  Order.  If  outcry  was 
to  be  raised  against  kings,  whom  Families  had  estab- 
lished, how  long,  pray,  before  Families  themselves  were 
to  be  arraigned.''  That  disgraceful  affair  of  the  Duke 
of  York's,  now !  Of  course,  the  man  deserved  what  he 
got,  but,  of  course,  half  the  uproar  had  been  aimed  be- 
yond him — to  Windsor  and  to  Brighton.  That  was  to 
be  understood,  and  she  was  not  one  to  quarrel  with  it. 
No  Radical  on  a  tub  could^  despise  royalty  more  than 
that  great  lady.  But  she  was  forced  to  tell  herself  over 
and  over  again,  as  she  beheld,  not  without  some  satis- 


FAMILY  MAGNANIMOUS  99 

faction  of  her  extreme  contempt,  the  flounderings,  snort- 
ings,  and  bellowings  of  that  harried  Prince-Bishop  of 
York  and  Osnaburgh,  that  there  but  for  the  grace  of 
God  floundered  Roderick  Earl  of  Morfa.  There,  grace 
of  God  or  none,  must  he  never  flounder !  A  trial  of  Vcr- 
nour,  evidence  against  Vernour,  were  unthinkable ;  an 
Earl  of  Morfa  in  the  witness-box !  Forbid  it,  heaven ! 
Time  after  time,  then,  the  young  man  was  remanded,  bail 
refused;  and  as  the  Press  was  too  busy  to  heed  him 
and  the  Duke  of  York  large  in  the  mob's  e^^e,  it  really 
seemed  that  Heaven  had  gone  into  partnership  with  an, 
old  dragon  of  a  countess  fighting  for  her  order  behind 
her  spiked  walls.  She  held  on,  and  she  won.  INIarch  was 
all  but  over,  Lord  Castlereagh  was  now  the  unmasked 
villain  of  the  hour,  when  Vernour  the  elder  lost  his  nerve, 
drooped  his  insolent  head,  made  his  prayer  of  humble  ac- 
cess at  the  tradesmen's  gate  one  windy  morning,  and  was 
admitted  into  the  presence  of  an  off'ended  patron. 

She  had  expected  him,  waited  for  him,  and  now  she  had 
him  on  his  miserable  knees.  She  was  very  capable  of 
playing  out  the  scene  with  the  majesty  of  a  Siddons  ;  but 
she  didn't  play  it  at  all.  It  was  too  real  and  too  serious 
for  histrionics ;  she  sat  holding  her  crutch,  nodding, 
blinking  her  fierce  eyes,  working  her  lips — no  longer 
angry,  but  deeply  incensed.  Vernour  the  elder,  by  the 
door,  a  fine,  upright  man,  grey-haired  and  grey-whis- 
kered, with  a  lined,  dignified  old  face  on  him,  bowed  his 
head  as  he  humbled  himself — a  person  in  the  presence 


100  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

of  Family.  "My  lady,  I  ask  your  pardon  for  my  boy, 
I  ask  it  on  my  knees.  Indeed  I  do,  my  lady — in  a  bitter 
day  for  me.  He  forgot  himself,  my  lady — my  unfortu- 
nate son.     He  has  a  spirit — he  is  quick " 

A  butcher  with  spirit !  Quick !  This  was  too  much  for 
Lady  Morfa. 

"Vemour,  you  are  talking  nonsense,  and  I  cannot  have 
ib.  It  was  not  spirit,  it  was  insolence.  Such  things  are 
not  to  be  borae.  You  see  where  they  may  lead — where 
they  must  lead." 

He  was  very  feeble  now,  admitting  everything  or  any- 
thing. 

"No,  my  lady,  no,  it  is  so.  I  know  that  he  forgot  him- 
self— and  dearly,  dearly  he's  paid  for  it.  Dearly — oh, 
dearly.  Six  weeks  in  gaol,  with  rips  and  street-walkers — 
my  boy !  My  lady,  he's  my  only  son.  .  .  .  Why !" — he 
stared  at  his  offended  god — "why,  my  lady,  'tis  enough 
to  make  a  Radical  of  the  lad.     It  is  indeed." 

"Man,"  said  Lady  Morfa,  throwing  back  her  head,  "he 
is  a  Radical.     Detestable." 

Vemour  shook  his.  "Ay,  my  lady,  'tis  to  be  feared. 
I've  known  that  to  come  of  such  a  trial.  I've  known  a 
young  man  go  to  gaol  through  no  fault  of  his  own,  and 
come  out  after  serving  his  time — and  if  he  stop  out 
thereafter  'twill  be  through  no  fault  of  his  own.  My 
lady,  a  man  must  speak  up  for  his  son — and  such  a  son 
as  he's  been  to  me  !•  A  good  lad,  my  lad}^  a  clever,  studi- 
ous, spirited " 


FAMILY  MAGNANIMOUS  101 

Oh,  unlucky  word!  "Veniour,  I  can't  have  it,  and  I 
will  noL  Spirited !  Do  you  know  what  was  done  ?  Do 
you  know  that  his  lordship  was — touched?  Touched  by 
your  son — touched  on  the  collar?"  That  was  as  near 
to  tlie  fact  as  she  could  get  herself  to  go.  "Do  you  know 
that  Lord  Edlogan  was  also  touched — ^touched  upon  the 
— ah,  person?  Do  you  know  what  these  things  mean? 
They  mean  Revolution,  man ;  they  mean  the  breakdo^m 
of  the  Constitution.  They  must  be  dealt  with — and  they 
have  been  dealt  with.  If  persons  act  in  this  way,  whole 
classes  of  persons  may  act  so ;  and  society,  and  decency, 
and  proper  order  must  cease  to  exist.  You  are  a  sensible 
man,  Vernour,  and  must  surely  perceive  it." 

"Yes,  my  lady,  yes,  indeed,"  says  broken  old  Vernour. 

"Very  well.  Then  don't  come  to  me  talking  of  spirit, 
because  that  tells  me  that  you  hope  to  justify  what  can- 
not and  must  not  be  justified." 

"It  has  iTiined  my  son,  my  lady ;  it  has  gone  near  to 
niin  me.  I've  been  in  business  now  for  forty  years — 
notliing  but  tlie  best  families,  my  lady — and  can  scarce 
hold  my  head  up  again." 

Her  ladyship  was  not  impressed.  "I  tliink  you  have 
held  it  too  high,  Vernour,  indeed  I  do.  If  3'ou  have  been 
taught  to  hold  it  more  becomingl}'  for  tlie  future,  this 
lesson  will  not  have  been  without  benefit.  And  your  most 
unliappy  son — let  him  be  encouraged  by  this  to  learn 
how  to  keep  his  station  in  life-  Latin !  French !  I  never 
heard  such  nonsense.     How  can  you  be  surprised  that 


102  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

he's  a  Radical?  Why,  he  might  be — a  pickpocket  on 
these  terms.  But  I  have  no  wish  to  be  harsh,  now  that 
you  have  come  to  your  senses — none  at  alh  I  will  speak 
to  his  lordship,  use  my  influence  with  Lord  Edlogan,  with 
his  Grace.  I  don't  suppose  that  there  is  any  desire  to 
punish  you  for  your  son's  offence ;  and  I  understand 
from  you  now  that  he  is  truly  penitent,  and  not  likely  to 
indulge  his  wicked,  most  wicked  feelings  of  disrespect 
again.     Is  that  so?" 

"Let  me  assure  your  ladyship " 

"Assure  me  by  your  actions,  Vernour,  and  let  your  son 
assure  me.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say  upon  this  distress- 
ing affair.  No  doubt  the  young  man  will  now  be  set  at 
liberty — and  may  resume  his — ah,  duties,  here  and  else- 
where. I  have  no  Avish,  I  say,  to  be  harsh.  And  I  will 
speak  with  his  lordship  about  the  horse.  Possibly,  under 
the  circumstances,  he  may  be  willing  to  consider  what 
might  be  done." 

"A  blood  horse — cost  me  thirty  guineas — "  old 
Vernour  Avas  understood  to  murmur.  Up  went  Lady 
Morfa's  head  again,  like  the  royal  standard  on  a 
birthday. 

"Thirty  guineas !  Oh,  ridiculous  !  A  person — that 
walk  of  life — a  thirty  guinea  horse !  Why,  my  grand- 
son, Mr.  Chambre,  gave  no  more  than  sixty  for  his 
hackney.     I  am  quite  at  a  loss —  Oh,  ridiculous !" 

"Very  good,  my  lady,"  says  poor  Vernour.  Lady 
Morfa  was  now  sick  of  him. 


FAMILY  MAGNANIMOUS  103 

"I  will  speak  to  his  lordship — can  make  no  promise,  of 
course.     That  is  all,  I  think,  Vernour." 

But  he  had  to  crawl  a  little  nearer;  business  was  busi- 
ness still.  Her  lad3'ship's  patronage  and  custom — .'' 
Her  ladyship  reassured  him ;  he  could  call  as  usual.  She 
cut  short  his  gratitude,  waved  him  out,  and  went  away 
to  wash  her  hands.     A  very  hateful,  distressing  affair. 

And  there,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  the  incident 
ended;  yet  just  there,  in  a  sense,  it  may  be  said  to  have 
begun.  Famil}',  or  Franchise  (according  to  Mr.  AI03'- 
sius  Banks),  is  a  living  thing,  with  a  spirit  as  well  as  a 
body  to  it,  which  bloweth  where  it  listeth.  We  have  now 
to  see  it  take  a  flight  as  high  as  strange.  But  Vernour 
the  3'ounger  was  brought  up  before  the  magistrate  for  the 
seventh  time,  and  as  no  evidence  was  offered  against  him, 
and  no  remand  applied  for,  he  was  set  at  liberty.  A  few 
mornings  later  his  horse  might  have  been  seen  tethered  to 
the  Caryll  House  railings,  and  himself,  bareheaded,  in 
blue  frock  and  apron,  at  the  tradesman's  door,  awaiting 
custom  or  riding  his  tray.  And  had  his  lordship  passed 
out  or  in,  not  a  doubt  but  that  the  young  man  would  have 
touched  his  forelock — for,  business  being  business,  only 
insensate  rage  can  obscure  a  lord  from  British  eyes.  IMr. 
Cobbett,  it  is  true,  did  give  a  line  or  two  to  the  thing  in 
the  ensuing  Register;  but  the  front  page  was  occupied  by 
Lord  Castlereagh  and  the  new  Reding  job.  Mutterings, 
foamings  from  a  man  Hazhtt  at  Winterslow  were  noth- 
ing. No ;  there  was  an  end  of  it,  certainly,  so  far  as 
Lady  Morfa  was  concerned. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHICH  FORFEITS  MR.  TOUCHETT  THE  ENTREE 

l^ISS  CHAMBRE  came  back  to  CaryU  House  early 
■^  -'-in  April,  in  excellent  spirits  and  blooming  health. 
Petersham  had  done  its  work.  Her  checks  were  glowing, 
her  bosom  abud;  her  wit  overflowed.  Gentlemen  at 
parties  fell  befoi-e  her  like  butterflies  to  a  high  wind. 
My  Lord  Edlogan  changed  his  course  of  life,  and  di'ank 
negus ;  Lord  Rodono  presented  a  petition  to  the  House 
of  Commons ;  Lord  Sandgate  sought  an  introduction ; 
IMr.  Banks  wrote  a  poem,  "To  Miss  H.  C,  on  returning 
to  Town."  It  was  even  rumoured  that  tlie  Prince  of 
Wales  had  asked  two  or  three  times  if  she  was  to  be  seen 
yet,  and  tliat  Lady  H —  was  greatly  chagrined.  She 
was  taken  everywhere,  and  everywhere  admired,  and 
seemed  to  have  entirely  recovered  from  her  former  fever. 
But  there  was  a  good  reason  for  that.  The  Rights  of 
]\Ian  were  drowned  in  the  domestic  afi^ections.  Dick 
Chambre,  whom  she  adored,  her  handsome,  gallant  Dick, 
was  to  sail  for  Portugal  at  the  end  of  a  week,  in  tlic 
same  ship  that  took  Sir  Arthur;  liis  uniform,  liis  servant, 
his  baggage,  his  sword  ;  the  Bible  which  he  vowed  to  read, 
the  letter-paper  which  he  swore  to  cover;  the  farewell 
dinners,  the  farewell  pauses,  in  which  only  their  hearts 
dared  speak — here  was  enough  to  fill  a  sister's  mind. 


MR.  TOUCHETT  FORFEITS  THE  ENTREE  105 

"Some  natural  tears  they  shed" — but  not  many,  for 
Dick  was  mortally  afraid  of  them,  and  she  kept  back  hers 
for  his  sake,  doing  violence  to  her  lips  also,  to  her  arms 
and  fond  heart.  Had  she  hugged  him,  she  would  have 
cried ;  had  she  cried,  God  knows  that  he  would  have 
broken  down.  Their  last  night  together  was  a  piercing 
comedy  of  reserves,  like  many  a  night  and  day  in  Eng- 
land. She  was  desperately  ofF-hand,  he  savagely 
matter-of-fact.  It  was  "Good-night,  Hermy.  Shall  I 
see  you  in  the  morning.'^"  and  "Yes,  if  I'm  not  too 
sleep3^  Good-night."  No  kisses ;  and  no  tears  until 
the  door  was  shut — and  then  a  stifF-chokered  young 
subaltern  on  his  knees  at  his  bedside:  "God  bless  her — 
God  bless  my  Hermy — God  bless  me.  Amen !"  and  a 
tumble-haired  beauty  with  scalded  cheeks,  lying  anyhow 
on  a  couch :  "Oh,  Dick !  Oh,  Dick!  What  shall  I  do?" 
That  was  the  English  way  of  it  before  the  Reform  Bill, 
and  perhaps  is  so  yet,  unless  the  Radicals  have  got  at 
human  nature. 

She  saw  him  drive  off  in  his  postchaise,  into  the  golden 
spring  mist,  without  a  murmur ;  and  breakfasted  sedately 
with  grandmamma,  as  became  a  Caryll  by  the  mother's 
side. 

Some  few  nights  later  the  Caryll  in  her  showed  its  right 
to  franchise,  its  indefeasible  claim  to  prerogative  of 
choice.  You  can't  blame  her — or  I  cannot.  If  she  had 
the  right  to  command  herself,  she  had  the  right  to  let 
herself  go.     Logically,  it's  not  to  be  denied  that  if  you 


106  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

can  set  up  you  can  also  pull  down,  though  custom  be 
against  it  and  its  indulgence  may  well  lead  on  to 
anarchy.     However,  here  is  what  happened. 

There  was  a  dinner-party  at  Caryll  House,  which  was 
to  be  followed  by  the  usual  assembly.  Lady  Morfa 
plumed  herself  upon  these,  or  would  have  if  she  had  been 
a  common  person,  and  held  them  weekly  while  Parliament 
was  in  session.  The  Whig  families  rallied,  or  else,  so 
far  as  she  was  concerned,  they  ceased  to  be  Whigs.  In 
very  flagrant  cases  they  ceased  to  be  Families.  But 
the  diners  were  always  carefully  chosen,  and  this  one  was 
a  good  specimen  of  its  class ;  young  men,  for  Hermia's 
sake — young  men  of  worth  and  standing;  a  few  of 
Morfa's  friends,  and  a  politician  here  and  there,  with 
possibly  a  wit — to  give  body.  Lord  Edlogan  of  the 
wounded  nose  was  there,  a  very  handsome  stripling,  not 
without  brains,  although  he  did  his  best  to  seem  so ;  Mr. 
Horner  also,  whom  Miss  Hermia  adored,  and  Lord 
Rodono,  who  adored  Miss  Hermia  and  did  not  care,  now, 
who  knew  it ;  and  Lord  Sandgate  was  strangely  there — 
but  his  famil}"^  was  undeniable,  and  the  Clark  affair  had 
blo^^^l  over.  Lord  Sandgate  was  presented  on  this  oc- 
casion, and  was  to  hand  Miss  Chambre  in  to  dinner. 
Then  there  were  Lady  Diana  Topham,  whose  husband 
would  be  a  peer  some  day,  and  Mrs.  Western,  who  went 
everywhere,  though  no  one  knew  why ;  Lady  Gorges, 
pretty,  swan-necked,  and  a  poetess ;  Sir  George  Coigne, 
the  young  Buckinghamshire  baronet,  a  Botetort  through 


MR.  TOUCHETT  FORFEITS  THE  ENTREE  107 

his  mother,  therefore  nephew  of  her  ladyship,  and  enor- 
mously rich ;  lastly,  Lady  Barwise,  eldest  daughter  of 
the  house  of  Caryll,  Princess  Royal,  you  might  say,  of 
that  strait  realm — and  Mervyn  Touchett,  the  diarist, 
who  was  to  give  the  dolorous  stroke.  Lord  Morfa  him- 
self, it  so  happened,  was  dining  at  home,  and  allowing 
no  one  to  be  unaware  of  it.  It  is  most  certain  that  INIiss 
Harriet  Moon,  suffusing  and  pahng  in  the  long  drawing- 
room,  where  she  was  expected  to  be  both  before  and  after 
dinner,  was  aboundingly  aware  of  it. 

Lord  Morfa  led  the  talk,  as  was  only  natural.  It  was 
an  age  when  conversation,  to  call  it  so,  was  apt  to  run  in 
monologues.  There  seemed  no  middle  course  between 
that  and  general  hubbub.  But  it  cannot  be  allowed  that 
the  young  man  was  fitted  for  his  task ;  he  mistook  equi- 
voque for  epigram,  and  anecdote  for  information.  He 
spoke  of  persons  rather  than  of  things,  and  his  subjects 
were  the  more  fortunate  if  they  were  not  present.  On 
this  occasion,  for  instance,  his  fancy  led  him  to  dis- 
course of  M.  de  Montrond,  a  too  famous  gentleman  of 
his  own  world,  in  a  manner  more  facetious  than  respect- 
ful. He  addressed  himself,  in  true  Caryll  fashion,  to  his 
mother  at  the  further  end  of  the  long  table. 

"Old  French!"  said  he,  chuckling — thus  they  desig- 
nated M.  de  Montrond — "he's  devilish  clever.  I  know 
for  a  fact,  ma'am,  that  he  had  ten  thousand  of  Seph's 
money  at  White's.  That's  not  so  bad  for  a  night's 
work,  hey?     And  he  fairly  skinned  Johffe,  I  hear." 


lOS  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

It  was  impossible  to  say  whether  Lady  INIorfa  was 
edifiecL  Lord  Sefton  was  a  kinsman — but  there's  noth- 
ing in  that. 

"Monsieur  Montrond  is  very  clever,"  she  allowed,  "very 
clever — with  his  hands." 

Morfa  guffawed  over  his  wine,  and  allowed  Lord  Sand- 
gate  to  take  up  the  tale. 

"He  has  a  tongue,  too — old  Montrond.  Did  your  lady- 
ship hear  what  he  said  to  Pink  Mordaunt  the  other 
night .f*  'Pink,  mon  vieux,'  says  he,  'depechez-vous  de 
reconnaitre  ce  hon  Monsieur  Cohhett,  ou  hientot  il  ne 
t'ous  reconnaitra  pas.'  I  call  that  uncommonly  neat  of 
Montrond." 

Lady  Morfa  could  see  nothing  in  a  story  which  had 
Cobbett  for  a  personage,  and  stared  rather  blankly  at 
her  guest;  but  it  was  Cobbett's  name  which  brought 
about  a  crisis.  Mervj^n  Touchett  was  the  instrument — 
a  keen-faced  man  of  thirty,  with  black  hair,  good 
grooming,  a  hsp,  and  an  appearance  studiedly  un- 
picturesque.  He  had  a  fine  pair  of  eyes,  and  knew  it, 
but  he  had  missed  Lady  Morfa's  blank  look.  His  teeth 
were  excellent. 

Leaning  now  sideways,  to  avoid  a  gold  epergne,  catch 
Sandgate's  eye,  and  have  a  view  of  "the  sumptuous  Miss 
Charabre,"  as  he  was  fond  of  calling  her — "Your  Cob- 
bett, my  dear  lord,"  he  said  with  mock  severity,  "your 
Cobbett  strikes  a  note." 

"He  strikes  more  than  that,  Merv3'n,"  said  my  lord. 


]\m.  TOUCHETT  FORFEITS  THE  ENTREE  109 

"He  hardly  strikes  the  stars,  though  I  grant  you  that 
he  strikes  at  them.     Pray,  have  you  seen  the  Register?" 

"I  always  see  it,"  said  my  lord.  "You  find  it  stimu- 
lating ?" 

"Cayenne,"  says  Touchett.  "Morfa,  you  should  look 
at  it.     You're  in  it — you're  always  in  it  now." 

"Damn  him,  I  know,"  Lord  Morfa  said ;  "but  you  may 
spare  my  blushes." 

Lady  Barwise  peered  up,  scenting  havoc.  She  hated 
her  bi'other.  "Pray,  Mr.  Touchett,  spare  Roddy  noth- 
ing of  that  sort.  He  blushes  so  rarely,  and  is  so  become 
by  the  appearance  in  every  way  that  I  shall  insist " 

"Thank  you,  Louisa.  You  alwaj^s  give  a  helping 
hand,"  said  the  little  lord. 

"I  say,  Touchett,  is  Edlogan  in  too  ?"  This  came  from 
Sir  George  Coigne,  baronet  of  Bucks,  knight  of  that 
shire,  and  man  of  substance.  The  hunt  was  up  at  that 
end  of  the  table,  but  had  not  yet  reached  her  ladyship's. 
As  for  the  unhappy  Edlogan,  he  had  trusted,  blushing, 
to  his  luck;  but  it  seemed  that  he,  too,  was  in.  "Yes, 
yes,  Edlogan's  in — nose  and  all  that."  And  then  it  was 
that  Miss  Chambre  Ufted  her  head  sharply  and  began  to 
listen.  Lord  Rodono,  with  the  eyes  of  a  lover  and  the 
mind  of  one,  remembered  that  look  of  hers ;  Diana's,  on 
the  uplands,  sighting  a  quarry,  eh  ?  However  that  may 
be,  she  looked  up  as  suddenly  as  a  cat  w^hich  hears  a 
rustling  in  the  grass,  and,  sleek  before,  is  all  at  once 
sinewy  and  intent. 


110  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Mr.  Touchett,  so  many  eyes  upon  him,  produced  from 
his  pocket-book  a  slip  of  paper,  and  threw  it  in  silence  to 
Lord  Morfa — who  stared  at  it,  but  did  not  take  it. 

"I  don't  want  it,  Mervyn.  It's  no  sort  of  use  to  me," 
he  said.  "The  thing's  done  and  done  with — but  Louisa's 
longing  to  be  at  it."  Then  he  picked  it  up  and  tossed  it 
forward  towards  Lady  Barwise. 

Rodono  gained  it,  and  was  about  to  make  a  spill  of  it, 
for  the  mercies  of  the  candle.     But  she  stopped  that. 

"Please,  Lord  Rodono,  let  us  know  the  worst.  Mamma, 
you  will  allow  us?"  Her  shrill  tones  silenced  the  table 
all  over.  Lady  INIorfa,  checked  in  her  conversation  with 
Mr.  Horner,  must  know  what  this  was  all  about.  The 
whole  thing  had  to  be  explained  to  her.  Nobody  in  Lon- 
don could  have  done  it  but  Lady  Barwise. 

The  strain  was  severe,  but  the  great  lady  could  meet 
it.  She  knew  this  daughter  of  hers,  and  did  no  more 
than  raise  her  brows.  "Cobbett.''  Do  you  want  to  hear 
him  crow  ?    By  all  means."    Slie  resumed  her  conversation. 

The  scrap  went  back  to  its  owner  with  Lady  Barwise's, 
"Pray  read,  Mr.  Touchett."  The  unhappy  man  looked 
for  a  direction  from  his  hostess,  which  he  did  not  get. 
A  turn  of  a  hair  would  have  done — but  no !  Lady  Morfa 
was  talking  about  Cintra. 

"Forge  ahead,  Mervyn,"  says  Lord  IVIorfa,  and 
emptied  his  glass.  He  signed  to  Progers  that  it  was 
empty.  The  only  objection  heard  was  Rodono's.  "Why 
should  Mervyn  be  allowed  to  be  a  bore?" 


MR.  TOUCHETT  FORFEITS  THE  ENTREE  111 

Lord  Morfa  said,  "Tom,  behave."  Then  Mr.  Touchett 
had  to  read  his  piece. 

"David  Vernour,"  wrote  Cobbett,  "has  been  released 
from  the  gaol  where  the  Caryll  House  gang  thought  fit 
to  confine  him — after  six  weeks.  Mark  the  clemency  of 
jNIr.  Fox's  friends.  I  saw  him  no  later  than  Tuesday. 
To  his  credit,  though  infinitely  to  their  discredit,  he  will 
say  little.  Every  word  he  withholds  is  a  smear  upon  the 
Whig  Cabal.  As  fine  a  young  fellow  as  ever  I  saw  in  my 
life,  an  educated,  high-spirited,  clever,  instructed  young 
man,  herded  with  street-walkers,  purse-cutters,  and  shop- 
thieves  for  six  weeks ;  refused  a  trial ;  ruined.  No,  by 
Heaven,  he  is  not  to  be  ruined !  In  spite  of  them  all,  I'll 
see  to  that.  And  why?  Because  a  little  atomy  Earl  of 
jMorfa,  K.G.,  Baron  Rhos,  etc.,  was  drunk,  and  staked  a 
horse  for  Vernour.  Because  a  Marquis  of  Edlogan, 
also  drunk,  tried  a  rescue  and  had  his  nose  punched. 
Upon  my  conscience  that  is  all.  Now  Vernour  receives 
a  FREE  PARDON  from  my  lady  Countess  of  Morfa,  and 
leaves  the  King's  Bench  with  as  many  stains  upon  his 
character  as  she  and  her  cub  choose  to  put  there.  With 
my  hand  upon  my  heart  I  say.  If  this  is  the  way  of  the 
Friends  of  1688,  of  the  Foxites,  Crowland-Houseites, 
and  Grenville-cum-Greyites,  give  me  that  of  Pitt,  Castle- 
reagh,  Wellesley,  and  Co.  Why,  my  Lord  Melville's 
peculations  were  gallantry  compared  to  these  of  her 
ladyship's.  She  'forgives'  David  Vernour!  But  I  need 
say  no  more  at  present.     Indeed,  I  have  said  now  more 


112  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

than  Vernour  will  care  about.  He's  a  gentleman — and 
there's  a  shrewder  blow  at  them  than  I  can  hope  to  give." 

Mr.  Touchett,  long  before  he  was  through  with  a  task 
upon  which  he  had  so  light-heartedly  embarked,  wished 
liimself  dead.  When  it  was  over  he  knew  that,  with  re- 
gard to  Caryll  House,  dead  he  was.  Nobody  but  Lady 
Barwise  had  a  word  to  say. 

"Charming  for  you,  Roddy  !     Charming !" 

Young  Lord  Morfa  met  her  chilly  eyes  and  laughed  at 
them.  The  rest  took  it  in  their  several  ways — Lord  Ed- 
logan  with  a  deep  blush.  Lord  Sandgate,  after  whistling 
below  his  breath,  with  a  gaze  steadily  at  the  ceiling,  Mr. 
Horner  with  extreme  misery  wliich  nothing,  he  felt,  but 
rapid  exercise  could  abate.  Lord  Rodono  watched  his 
Hermia ;  and  as  for  her,  in  the  full  presence  of  that  table 
and  of  her  painted  ancestors  ranked  behind  and  before  it, 
she  flooded  with  scarlet,  and  flashed  upon  her  shameful 
kindred.  Lord  knows  what  she  might  have  done  or  said ; 
it  is  certain  that  she  was  primed  to  do  or  say  something. 
She  was  in  the  act  to  rise  when  Lord  Sandgate  took  hold 
of  her  gown  and  held  her  bodily  in  her  place.  As  she 
turned  upon  him  in  her  fury — startled  into  fury  as  one 
is,  balked  of  some  vivid  purpose,  he  bade  her  sit  down 
again.  "Keep  still — it  is  madness,"  was  what  he  said, 
and  saved  her.  Lady  Morfa  had  seen  nothing  so  far. 
The  girl  sank  back  into  her  place,  and  lifted  her  head  no 
more. 

All  this  had  taken  but  a  half-minute,  for  all  had  hap- 


MR.  TOUCHETT  FORFEITS  THE  ENTREE  113 

pened  in  the  first  shock.  It  was  as  near  an  approach  to 
a  scene  as  her  ladyship  could  ever  have  permitted,  and 
such  as  it  was  she  stopped  it  by  a  recovery  little  short  of 
sublime.     But  she  hurt  Mervj^n  Touchett. 

"Gusto  spoils  your  reading,  I  consider.  You  roll  it  on 
the  tongue."  Her  voice  had  a  croaking  sound — rather 
like  the  dry  rattle  of  a  corncrake.  Her  only  other  com- 
ment was  apart  to  Mr.  Homer,  that  for  a  barnyard  cock 
it  was  stoutly  crowed.  No  doubt,  to  that  kind  of  fowl, 
the  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  should  he  find  himself  upon  it, 
would  seem  but  a  larger  dunghill. 

jNIr.  Touchett  never  entered  the  Carj^ll  House  gates 
a  sain. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHICH  TRANSPORTS  US  TO   LA  MANCHA 

A  SPRINKLING  of  untimely  guests  were  already  in 
"*■  ^  the  great  drawing-room  when  the  ladies'  procession 
entered  it — new-comers,  people  of  little  account,  per- 
sons. They  seemed  to  huddle  like  sheep  as  the  dining 
party  rustled  in  ;  it  was  almost  certain  that  Mr.  Aloysius 
Banks  stamped  his  forefoot  when  he  heard  her  lady- 
ship's crutch.  Hermia,  at  least,  told  Harriet  that  she 
had  heard  him.  She  was  now  very  calm,  and  able  to  be 
amused  with  her  fellow-creatures. 

Harriet  commented  upon  the  length  of  dinner.  The 
servants  had  left  the  dining-room  half  an  hour  ago,  and 
her  ladj^ship  rarely  stayed  ten  minutes  after  that.  "Mr. 
Touchett  was  reading  to  us,"  she  was  told. 

"Really!     A  poem.?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Chambre,  "one  might  say  so.  It 
moved  me  a  good  deal.  And  now  I  want  to  run  away 
and  think  about  it.  And  so  I  shall  if  grandmamma 
doesn't  catch  me." 

"Oh,  Hermy,"  said  her  friend,  whose  Ideas  ran  in  a 
groove,  "Lord  Rodono  will  be  so  disappointed." 

"I  thought  he  was  consoling  himself  when  we  left," 
Miss  Chambre  said. 


LA  MANCHA  115 

*'I  could  see  that  he  was  very  much  put  out  that  you 
were  given  to  Lord  Sandgate." 

"That  was  selfish  of  him — for  I  was  very  much 
honoured." 

"You  were  happy  with ?" 

"With  Lord  Sandgate?  Perfectly.  He  was  very  kind 
to  me.  Adieu,  child."  She  kissed  her  hand  to  Harriet 
and  flitted  out  on  the  tips  of  her  toes.  Tom  Rodono,  en- 
tering with  the  rest  of  the  men  in  due  time,  found  the 
rooms  full — but  emptied  of  her.  Miss  Moon  took  leave 
to  tell  him  that  Hermia  had  had  a  dreadful  headache. 
"Don't  wonder  at  it,"  said  he ;  and  then  she  had  the  story 
out  of  him. 

Miss  Chambre,  who  never  suffered  from  headache,  had 
an  excellent  night's  rest,  having  sought  it  without  any 
fuss  of  dedication  to  a  cause  or  a  duty.  And  yet,  before 
she  closed  her  eyes,  she  had  made  up  her  mind  as  to  what 
must  be  done.  Her  prayers  were  as  usual,  without  a  long 
breath  of  preparation ;  if  you  had  likened  her  to 
Antigone  she  would  have  been  amused.  She  rose  at  her 
usual  time,  but  did  not  ride  as  usual,  and  in  the  course  of 
the  early  morning  told  Harriet  Moon  that  she  had  some 
shopping  to  do,  and  would  like  a  companion  for  the 
walk. 

Harriet  showed  her  evident  pleasure,  interspersed  with 
the  customary  apprehensions.  Would  her  ladyship — ? 
Might  not  her  ladyship — ?  That  kind  of  half  question 
was  frequent  upon  Harriet's  pale  lips.     A  footman,  too, 


116  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

seemed  almost  a  necessity ;  but  Hermia  said,  Rubbish. 
She  intended  to  go  and  be  back  early ;  and — this  was  to 
another  aposiopesis — No,  she  had  not  thought  of  asking 
grandmamma,  unless  Harriet  might  fall  into  disgrace. 
A  look  into  the  brown  eyes,  which  had  begun  to  loom, 
decided  that.    Very  well,  then,  let  grandmamma  be  asked. 

Leave  was  obtained,  but  they  must  be  back  by  noon. 
Bond  Street  was  the  place  "^  Very  well ;  but  in  that  case, 
be  back  by  half  after  eleven.     At  ten,  the  pair  set  out. 

In  that  day  of  dangerous  elegance,  when  women's 
clothes  surely  fitted  as  closely  to  their  minds  as  to  their 
pretty  persons.  Miss  Chambre,  by  no  means  unaware  of 
her  natural  advantages,  affected  a  simplicity  and  a  dar- 
ing disastrous  to  mankind.  It  would  be  as  pleasant  to 
give  a  picture  of  herself  as  of  her  London,  into  whose 
sunny  spaces  of  grass  and  fleecy  skies,  among  whose  old 
ruddy  houses  she  walked  that  morning  of  the  fifteenth  of 
April ;  for  hers  was  a  day  when  London  was  still  a  clean 
country  town  and  beautiful  young  women  were  not  afraid 
to  show  themselves  in  it.  You  may  see  them  in  print 
and  picture,  in  their  feathers  and  fal-lals,  their  high- 
waisted,  low-bosomed  gowns,  airing  with  artful  grace 
their  white  stockings  and  their  sandals,  their  Leghorn 
bonnets  and  fluttering  scarves  ;  and  in  some  such  garb  of 
white  and  clinging  silk  you  may  clothe  her,  and  in  some 
such  close  bonnet  set  her  ardent  face.  Heightened  as  her 
colour  was  by  some  resolve  she  had,  her  beauty  showed 
that  rich  and  serious  cast  which  must  needs  draw  all  male 


LA  MANCHA  117 

eyes  and  yet  remain  unaffected.  She  was  very  ignorant 
of  such  a  battery.  And  she  had  Hved  most  of  her  hfe, 
too,  in  a  country  where  women  still  knew  how  to  walk ; 
she  moved  easily  and  well,  did  not  mince  her  steps.  She 
moved  and  held  herself,  in  fact,  as  a  girl  does  who  walks 
to  get  from  one  place  to  another,  which  is  not  tlie  present 
fashion. 

They  crossed  the  Green  Park  and  struck  into  Picca- 
dilly without  much  talk.  Miss  Chambre  was  noticeably 
quiet,  and  parried  Harriet's  utmost  ingenuity.  Any- 
thing direct  she  answered  with  "Yes,"  and  "No."  She 
did  not  know  yet  what  she  was  going  to  buy ;  no,  she  was 
not  going  to  Madame  Pelerine's ;  she  was  not  going  to 
the  bonnet-shop.  That  was  Lord  Drillstone  who  bowed  .'^ 
She  had  not  recognised  him.  Mr.  Touchett's  poem  of 
last  night.''  She  had  not  said  it  was  a  poem.  She  had 
said  that  it  had  moved  her.  Oh,  had  Hermy  heard  that 
Mr.  Cobbett — by  accident .?  And  then  for  a  moment  she 
had  paralysed  Harriet  with  a  look.  "How  do  you  hear 
things  by  accident,  Harriet.'"'  Miss  Moon,  finally,  with 
a  little  sigh,  resigned  herself  to  her  friend's  larger  mind 
and  more  settled  purpose.  The  Harriets  of  the  world 
win  only  by  waiting. 

They  went  north-east  by  devious  and  mostly  unfre- 
quented ways  to  the  comer  of  Brook  Street,  unnoticed 
and  untroubled ;  there  Hermia  stopped.  Harriet  noticed 
at  once  that  her  colour  was  high  and  her  breath  quick. 

"Harriet,"  she  said,  "I  have  an  errand  in  a  shop  near 


118  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

here.  Go  into  the  bun-shop  and  wait  for  me.  I'll  not  be 
five  minutes."  The  bun-shop  was  beside  them.  Through 
its  little  panes  of  bottle-glass  you  could  see  the  buns 
arrayed  in  sticky  pyramids,  the  glasses  of  sweetstuff, 
brandy-balls,  and  bulls-eyes,  and  cases  of  jumbles,  crisp, 
curled,  and  fresh.  The  girl  in  charge,  ringletted  and 
high-combed,  peered  through  the  window  to  see  the  fine 
lady  and  her  companion. 

Harriet,  on  the  verge  of  a  secret,  was  uneasy. 

"Dearest,  what  are  you  going  to  do?  I  fear  some  im- 
prudence!   What  shall  I  tell  her  ladyship?" 

"You  will  tell  her  nothing.  I  shall  have  that  to  do.  I 
am  going  to  her  directly  I  return." 

"Is  it—?  Ought  I  not — ?  Oh,  Hermy,  I  beseech  you 
to  be  careful !" 

"I  have  been  caring  all  night  and  all  this  morning," 
said  Miss  Chambre.  "I  hope  there's  been  carefulness 
enough."  Human  nature  could  not  bear  such  things. 
Harriet  thrilled. 

"Where  is  your  errand?  I  vow  that  I  have  guessed  it. 
May  I  not — ?  I  do  think  that  you  should  tell  me.  Not 
that  I  am  in  the  least  curious ;  I  beg  you  to  believe  it. 
But " 

Hermia  was  looking  along  Brook  Street,  and  spoke  as 
one  in  a  dream.  "I  think  I  cannot  tell  you — now,  or  at 
any  time.    But  no  doubt  you  will  hear." 

"Oh,  Hermy !    Oh,  darling !" 

Hermia  now  looked  at  her ;  she  smiled  kindly,  but  shool^ 


LA  MANCHA  119 

her  head,  "I  think  that  I  must  not.  It  will  be  better 
for  you — and  for  me,  too — if  you  don't  know  it.  I  am 
doing  what  is  right.    I  can  assure  you  of  that." 

Harriet  bit  her  lip.  "I  shall  be  most  unhappy.  You 
don't  trust  me." 

"No,  perhaps  not.  But  it  is  impossible  to  me  to  talk. 
I  have  made  up  my  mind.  Please  go  and  eat  your  buns. 
I'll  have  one  afterwards."    Harriet  shivered,  but  obeyed. 

Miss  Chambre  walked  on  alone,  eastward,  to  near  the 
Bond  Street  comer;  near  enough  to  it  to  be  able  to  see 
the  faces  of  the  lounging  dandies  passing  up  and  down 
— and  to  be  seen.  Hunchbacked  Lord  Sefton,  in  his 
bottle-green  coat,  saw  her  and  saluted  with  great  formal- 
ity. Mr.  Byng,  who  was  with  him,  marked  the  attention, 
turned,  saw  her,  and  off  with  his  hat.'  She  bowed  her 
head  slightly  and  held  back  until  they  were  gone  on. 
Little  things  like  these,  to  her  who  had  never  yet  walked 
a  London  street  without  escort,  made  of  her  venture  a 
journey  of  knight-errantry.  Her  heart  was  in  her 
mouth,  and,  worse  than  that,  her  fears  came  thronging 
to  her  brain.  She  had  been  prepared  for  shame  and  ter- 
ror— afterwards,  but  had  counted  on  doing  her  errand 
with  a  rush.  To  think  it  out,  to  foresee  the  stages  of  it 
were  madness ;  she  simply  could  not  afford  it.  And  to  be 
delayed,  checked  in  the  career — to  be  spoken  with,  held 
in  talk,  put  back  to  the  lists,  to  run  anew — ah,  no !  Be- 
fore she  could  be  endangered  again,  taking  now  a  full 
breath,  she  stepped  through  the  little  wicket  of  a  shop- 


120  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

doorway,  and  stood  in  the  sawdust,  and  inhaled  the  faint 
odours  of  the  establishment  of  Vernour  and  Son,  family 
butchers. 

A  pale  young  man  stepped  out  of  a  sort  of  glazed 
cage  and  bowed  before  her.  He  was  in  frock  and  apron, 
and  his  hair  was  as  smooth  as  butter — black  butter. 
Also,  he  was  di*eadfully  obsequious. 

"At  your  service,  madam." 

Below  her  heart-beats  and  the  sea-sound  in  her  ears  she 
heard  her  own  strangled  voice.  "Is  Mr.  Vernour 
within.?     Young  Mr.  Vernour .?" 

The  young  man's  raised  eyebrows  were  intended  to 
show  deference,  not  surprise — but  they  were  disconcert- 
ing, because  they  delayed  her.  "Mr.  David,  madam.'' 
I  think  not,  but  I  will  enquire.     Permit  me,  madam." 

He  brought  forward  a  chair,  on  which  it  was  impossible 
to  sit,  though  her  knees  were  faltering  under  her.  To  sit 
down — here — when  at  any  moment  she  might  have  to 
fly — to  hide  herself — never,  never.  In  the  meantime, 
the  young  man  had  disappeared,  and  she  was  alone  with 
her  heart-beats  and  a  white-faced  clock  whose  pulsing 
hammered  at  her  brain. 

He  seemed  gone  half-an-hour,  and  every  throb  of  the 
time  added  to  her  distress.  She  had  never  known  before 
how  conspicuous  she  was,  how  terribly  under  enquiry. 
A  street-singer  was  quavering  his  endless  ballad  outside 
in  the  street,  watching  her  with  an  eye  which  seemed 
to  read  her  very  soul,  though  no  doubt  it  yearned  for 


LA  MANCHA  121 

nothing  more  than  halfpence.  A  cart  rattled  by ;  the 
boy  in  the  tilt  stopped  whistling  when  he  spied  her.  A 
young  gentleman  drove  past  in  a  cabriolet,  and  the 
groom  dancing  behind  caught  sight  of  her  white  dress, 
and  stooped  to  see  her  face.  And  then  a  closed  carriage 
with  two  fine  horses  pulled  up  short — oh,  heaven,  she  was 
in  a  trap !  No — thank  God,  she  need  not  hide  herself — 
it  had  gone  on.  She  had  determined  that  nothing  should 
compel  her  to  that  shame,  but  by  now  her  blood  was  as 
water. 

When  she  heard  steps  within  the  glass  door  at  the  back, 
the  stricken  beauty  faced  her  assize.  The  door  yielded 
the  tall  figure  of  a  man,  but  an  elderly  man.  Old  Mr. 
Vernour,  grave  and  grey,  was  bowing,  and  rubbing 
propitiatory  hands.  He  was  ridiculously  the  humble 
servant  of  any  one  with  a  shilling  to  spend ;  and  yet  she 
eyed  him  as  if  he  was  new-risen  from  the  dead. 

"Your  servant,  madam,  your  servant.  Your  ladyship 
was  enquiring  for — my  son.''" 

"Yes,  if  you  please." 

It  hurt  Mr.  Vernour  to  deny  a  lady ;  he  spoke  very  seri- 
ously. "I  grieve  that  he  is  absent,  on  his  daily  business. 
It  is  most  unfortunate."  He  looked  sideways  at  her, 
stroking  his  chin.  "Can  I — any  message.''  I  should  be 
truly  honoured." 

It  was  so  impossible  as  to  be  almost  absurd.  She  became 
voluble  in  excuse.  "Oh,  no,  thank  you,  Mr.  Vernour — 
indeed,  no.     I  could  not  dream  of  troubling  you.     It  is 


122  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

of  little  or  no  consequence — indeed,  it  is  really  nothing 
— to  your  son." 

But  Mr.  Vernour  still  stroked  his  chin,  not  finding  him- 
self at  all  able  to  believe  that  such  visits  could  be  nothing 
to  his  son.  "Should  I,  madam — could  I — mention  a 
name  to  my  son?" 

A  name !  The  thought  of  it !  "Oh,  no,  indeed,  I  won't 
trouble  you — so  small  a  thing!  My  name  is,  of  course, 
nothing  to  your  son.  He  does  not  know  it,  has  never 
heard  it." 

"Oh,  madam !"  ]\Ir.  Vernour  was  shocked  at  the 
thought.  A  lady — a  fragrant,  floating,  white-robed 
lady  of  fashion,  and  his  son  ignorant !  And  he,  good 
man,  ignorant  himself,  as  the  babe  new-born! 

Then,  while  he  could  hardly  venture  to  look  at  her,  so 
discomfited  was  he,  it  came  upon  her  with  certainty  that 
she  must  fly.  She  had  done  her  honest  best,  and  had 
failed.  Her  heart  sank  at  the  thought  that  all  must 
be  done  again.  On  some  day  still  to  come  she  must  face 
Bond  Street  again,  again  pass  the  wicket,  stand,  ask, 
wait,  be  served  by  deferential  old  men — and  could  she 
do  it.''  She  had  no  notion,  but  the  question  did  not 
press.  What  was  urgent  was  that  she  should  go,  and 
most  urgent  of  all,  the  ridiculous  puzzle  of  how  to  go. 
Should  she  give  her  hand  to  old  Mr.  Vernour?  Would 
he  take  it  if  she  did?  Or  should  she  bow,  smile  upon 
him,  thank  him?  All  her  self-possession  was  gone,  all 
her  decision ;   even  her  imperative  reasons   for  coming 


LA  MANCHA  123 

on  this  errand  at  all  were  wasliing  away  on  the  ebb. 
Beauty  in  distress,  helpless,  miserable,  shamefaced,  and 
absurd — ^there  really  seemed  nothing  for  it  but  that 
refuge  of  heroines,  a  tear-storm.  And  then,  as  she 
swayed  and  turned  half,  her  affair  was  upon  her. 
There  came  the  canter  of  a  horse,  a  sudden  scour  on 
the  cobbles ;  and  before  she  could  collect  her  thoughts 
a  tall  young  man  stood  bareheaded  in  the  doorway, 
a  tall  young  man  with  high  colour  and  very  hght  hair, 
and  that  look  of  resolute  ability  upon  him  which  she  had 
once  before  seen  and  never  forgotten ;  and,  f rocked  and 
aproned  as  he  was,  with  his  wooden  tray  under  his  hand, 
there  was  no  majesty  in  England  at  that  hour  before 
wliich  she  could  haye  stood  so  humbly.  And  yet  the 
relief  which  his  presence  gave  to  her  irresolution  and  dis- 
comfort was  one  of  the  strongest  things  about  him.  He 
was  a  tower  of  refuge ;  she  would  fear  no  more. 

He  bowed,  and  would  have  passed  her,  but  "David,  this 
lady — "  began  Vemour,  the  elder,  and  waved  her  into 
debate  with  a  respectful  hand. 

"You  wish  to  see  me,  madam  .^"  She  raised  her  eyes  to 
meet  his  and  faltered  no  more ;  for  now  the  hour  was 
come. 

She  spoke  slowly  and  deliberately.  "Mr.  Vemour,  I 
belong  to  a  family  which  has  disgraced  itself  in  j^our 
eyes  and  in  mine.  I  am  come  here  to  admit  it  fully,  so 
far  as  I  can,  and  to  beg  your  pardon.  I  wish  that  my 
grandmother  could  have  come  herself,  but  she  is  an  old 


124  THE.  STOOPING  LADY 

lady,  and  you  must  excuse  her.  And  I  ought  to  say  that 
she  does  not  know  that  I  have  ventured  to  see  you."  The 
young  man  made  as  if  he  would  come  to  her,  but  she 
stopped  him.  "Of  course,  I  shall  tell  her  immediately 
what  I  have  done.  I  should  not  wish  you  to  suppose  that 
I  would  deceive  her  in  such  a  matter.  And  I  must  say 
that  I  cannot  expect  your  forgiveness  for — for  an  in- 
tolerable act,  but  that  I  cannot  gain  my  own  without 
asking  you  for  it.     I  hope  you  will  be  generous." 

And  there  she  stopped,  because  she  had  learned  no  more. 
She  had  trusted  to  her  ardour  to  give  her  continuance — 
which  it  did  not,  but  played  her  false.  That  quick  move- 
ment of  his  towards  her  had  thrown  her  out.  She  had 
thought  he  was  indignant  at  a  thing  done  by  her  in 
secret,  and  had  made  haste  to  disavow  any  secrecy.  And 
then  it  had  not  been  easy  to  go  on ;  and  now  it  seemed 
ridiculous  to  stop.  At  this  point,  too,  her  eyes  fell  be- 
fore Vernour's,  though  his  held  their  gaze.  He  had  nar- 
rowed them,  they  had  intensity ;  she  felt  them  dreadfully 
upon  her,  and  drooped  under  the  steady  attack.  It  was 
a  full  minute  before  he  spoke. 

"Madam,"  he  then  said,  "is  it  possible  that  you  are 
from ?" 

Her  lips  faltered  the  admission,  but  immediately  after- 
wards, as  if  ashamed  of  her  weak  knees,  she  held  up  her 
head  and  announced  herself  distinctly.  "I  am  Miss 
Chambre.    Lady  Morfa  is  my  grandmother." 

Once  again  he  deliberated  his  full  time  before  he  said, 


LA  MANCHA  125 

"I  think  the  Queen  of  England  cannot  be  a  prouder  lady 
than  you."  He  was  very  still,  very  trenchant;  she 
thought  him  angry  with  her. 

"You  think  that  I  have  come  to  insult  you.  You  have 
every  right  to  think  so ;  but  it  is  not  true." 

If  he  had  thought  so,  he  must  have  been  mad,  but  there 
was  fire  behind  his  voice  when  he  answered  her.  And  he 
held  his  hand  up  lest  she  should  say  any  more. 

He  said,  "I  think  that  you  are  very  proud;  and  you 
have  made  me  proud.  No  greater  honour  was  ever  paid 
to  a  man.  I  have  done  nothing  to  deserve  it — but  I 
shall  never  forget  it." 

It  was  plain,  even  to  her  in  her  distress,  that  he  was 
moved.  His  voice  was  husky,  and  his  eyes  were  dim. 
But  he  did  not  for  a  moment  cease  to  regard  her ;  without 
any  glimmer  of  offence  he  showed  that  he  was  absorbed 
in  her.  Not  her  beauty  alone  could  have  drawn  such 
an  intent  scrutiny ;  her  rank  alone  would  have  prevented 
it.  Whether  it  was  the  extraordinary  nature  of  her  er- 
rand, or  the  simplicity  with  which  she  had  acquitted  it, 
or  her  dignity  in  difficulties,  or  her  appeal — something 
there  was  which  took  him  out  of  himself  and  made  him 
strong  while  it  made  her  weak. 

Turning  at  last,  but  reluctantly,  as  though  he  was 
afraid  she  might  vanish,  he  spoke  to  his  father.  "Father, 
how  am  I  to  prove  to  this  lad}^  what  she  has  done  for 
me.?" 

To  old  Mr,  Vernour  the  incident  had  been  dreadful.     It 


126  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

had  upset  all  his  theories ;  he  was  not  able  to  do  more 
than  shake  his  head.  "I  doubt  you  cannot — I  doubt  you 
cannot."  He  could  not  lift  himself;  he  seemed  to  be 
thoroughly  ashamed.  "I  doubt  this  is  too  great  an 
honour  for  you,  my  son.  I  doubt  'twill  exalt  you  too 
greatly — for  your  peace  of  mind."  He  looked  pro- 
foundly unliappy,  spoke  towards  the  sawdust  of  the 
floor. 

This  humility  distressed  her,  and  it  appears  that  the 
young  man  must  have  divined  it.  The  diversion  which 
he  proposed  was  well  conceived;  it  seemed  to  give  her 
the  power  of  conferring  another  favour.  She  remem- 
bered it  afterwards,  arid  saw  how  high-bred  it  had  been. 
He  had  asked  her  whether  she  would  consent  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  his  mother.  "You  will  add  to  the  obliga- 
tion which  we  feel  so  truly,"  said  he.  "You  will  give  a 
proud  son  a  proud  mother."  She  was  very  grateful, 
would  gladly  go  in. 

As  he  held  open  the  glass  door  for  her,  she  seemed  to 
pass  in  beneath  his  arm.  Tliis  was  the  effect,  at  least, 
which  his  height  had  upon  her,  and  her  consciousness  of 
his  eyes'  downward  fire,  beating,  as  it  were,  hke  rays  of 
light  upon  the  lids  of  her  own.  She  felt  like  a  bird 
under  the  hand,  fluttering  her  wings. 

She  was  ushered  into  a  dusky  oval  parlour,  lit  from  a 
skylight.  It  was  extremely  neat,  stiff,  and  unoccupied ; 
it  was  like  a  miniature.  He  begged  her  to  wait  there 
while  he   found   his   mother.      He  pushed   further  into 


LA  MANCHA  12T 

the  interior,  and  she  heard  his  plain  voice  call 
"Mother — where  are  jou?'*  She  did  not  sit,  though 
she  was  desperately  tired-  You  don't  sit  in  kings' 
houses. 

Mrs.  Vemour  came  in,  the  softer,  more  blurred  copy 
of  her  son — tall,  largely  made,  fair  and  high-coloured, 
very  self-possessed.  For  her,  it  was  clear,  the  lovely 
Miss  Chambre  and  her  wild  errand  had  no  glamour. 
She  must  have  been  a  splendid  young  woman  herself,  in 
her  day ;  and  it  was  at  once  apparent  that  she  was  a 
Scot.  "Your  servant.  Miss  Chambre,"  she  said  sedately. 
"My  son  David  has  told  me  of  the  honour  done  to  him. 
Indeed,  he  would  have  gone  through  more  for  such  a 
reward  at  the  end  of  it."  To  Hermia's  renewed  protesta- 
tions she  deferred.  She  was  perfectly  the  lad}'  of  breed- 
ing; she  waived  all  injuries  and  griefs — and  yet  did  not 
make  too  little  of  them,  lest  she  should  seem  thereby  to 
minimise  the  act  of  grace.  Her  ladyship,  she  suggested, 
had  been  taken  aback.  It  was  for  her  own  son  she  had 
taken  up  anus.  She  hoped  that,  as  a  mother,  she  could 
understand  a  motlier's  feeling.  The  affair  had  ended — 
and  this  visit  was  the  happy  end.  There  was  no  more  to 
be  said.    .    .    . 

She  fell  to  discussing  her  son.  He  had  not  been  ill- 
treated  ;  they  had  allowed  him  his  books.  He  was  a  great 
scholar;  a  good  son  and  a  great  scholar. 

Hermia  had  heard  that,  she  said,  from  Mr.  Ranald — a 
friend. 


128  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"And  a  good  friend  to  my  son,  Miss  Chambre.  The 
Honourable  Mr.  Ranald.  My  mother  was  housekeeper 
to  his  own  lady  mother  at  Drumlaw.  'Twas  Lady  Clan- 
ranald  gave  me  my  wedding-gown.  And  Mr.  Robert  was 
born  that  same  year  in  which  I  was  married."  Details 
followed,  from  which  it  was  made  clear  that  David  was 
fourth  child  but  the  only  surviving. 

David  was  a  scholar.  He  had  been  to  the  Bluecoat 
School — had  his  Latin  and  Greek.  Holy  orders  had  been 
his  desire,  but  the  death  of  his  brother  had  decided  him 
against  it;  he  had  stayed  by  his  father  and  never  com- 
plained. But  he  had  his  interests — his  life  was  very 
full.  His  books,  his  debating.  He  was  a  keen  politi- 
cian, staunch  for  Mr.  Cobbett  and  Reform.  He  was  a 
Westminster  freeholder  himself — had  his  vote.  He  had 
taught  himself  the  French,  he  would  trg,vel  some  day. 
Meantime,  he  did  his  duty  and  was  all  that  a  son  should 
be. 

She  owned  to  his  quick  temper ;  that  horse  had  been  the 
apple  of  his  eye.  It  was  on  that  horse  that  he  used  to 
ride  every  Sunday  to  Feltham,  where  he  had  a  friend — 
a  nursery  gardener.  David  had  many  interests,  it 
seemed. 

Cake  and  wine  had  been  produced  while  this  was  going 
on ;  Miss  Chambre,  now  happy  and  at  ease,  forgot  the 
time,  and  did  not  disguise  the  interest  she  felt  in  these 
confidences.  She  tried  to  express  herself  as  she  rose  to 
go.    "I  should  like  to  tell  you,  Mrs.  Vernour,  how  proud 


LA  MANCHA  129 

I  am  that  3'ou  should  talk  to  me  like  this.  I  feel — that 
I  ought  to  be  ashamed — to  be " 

"It  will  be  a  sore  day  for  England  when  the  likes  of  you 
are  made  ashamed,  Miss  Chambre." 

She  then  took  leave,  hoping  that  she  might  come  again. 

Vernour  was  at  the  glass  door  as  she  came  out.  She 
was  very  shy. 

"Your  mother  has  been  extremely  kind,"  she  told  him. 
He  bent  vehemently  towards  her,  then  controlled  himself. 
"But  you  have  been  more  than  kind.    You  cannot  know." 

"No,  no — not  that."     Her  eyes  appealed. 

"If  to  give  manhood  back  to  a  man  be  not  a  royal 
act " 

She  spoke  her  cry  from  the  heart. 

"Don't  say  those  things,  please.  You  rob  me  of  what  I 
hold  dear.     I  hold  our  honour  very  dear." 

"You  do,  indeed,"  said  Vernour.  "It  is  certain  that 
you  do."  Her  eyes  filled  at  his  praise.  "Madam,"  he 
continued,  "I  speak  the  truth.  You  have  given  me  man- 
hood back.  I  was  like  to  have  lost  it  on  a  time,  and  now 
I  know  that  I  need  not.  Madam,  madam!  I  could  go 
down  on  my  knees  to  you." 

"I  beg  you,  I  beg  you — "  This  must  be  ended  some- 
how. "You  have  been  very  kind  to  listen  to  me — and  to 
make  light  of  what  you  endured.  You  have  made  me 
happy.  I  know  that  you  will  forgive  us.  I  see  that  you 
are  generous.  You  will  excuse  me  if  I — "  She  held 
out  her  hand,  and  Vernour,  fiercely  red,  took,  bent  over, 


130  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

and  kissed  it.  No  more  was  said.  She  escaped  ILke  a 
bird  out  of  a  window.     Sl>e  ate  no  buns. 

Plomeward,  then,  hke  a  bird  on  the  wing,  she  sped,  Har- 
riet trailing  in  her  wake — not  to  be  talked  to.  "Don't 
talk  to  me,  please — I  cannot  talk  now.  Yes,  yes,  I  have 
everything  I  wanted.  No — there  are  no  parcels  for  you 
to  carry." 

Dandies  ogled  in  vain ;  no  doffed  hats  touched  her,  no 
beckoning  hands  from  great  carriages  beguiled  her  from 
her  thoughts.  Arrived  at  tlie  house,  she  went  directly 
into  her  grandmother's  room  and  spoke  her  piece.  She 
found  her  at  her  letters. 

"Grandmamma,"  she  said,  "I  have  come  to  tell  you 
where  I  have  been.  I  left  Harriet  in  the  bun-shop,  and 
went  on  alone  to  ]Mr.  Vemour's.  I  saw  his  son,  and 
begged  his  pardon  for  tlie  way  we  had  used  him.  I  con- 
ceived that  his  due." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN  WHICH  WE  RAISE   OUR  EYEBROWS 

T  T  was  much  more  than  tradition  witli  Lady  Morfa 
"■■  that  under  no  circumstances  must  there  be  a  scene ; 
it  was  rehgion — an  act  of  faith ;  it  was  the  only  possible 
unfaltering  tribute  to  her  position  in  the  scheme  of  the 
Universe,  due  as  much  to  herself  as  to  the  Power  that 
had  placed  her  there.  But  there  is  more  in  it  than  the 
instinct  which  says,  I  am  of  tlie  Rock ;  there  was  the 
other,  reminding  her  perpetually.  You  are  not.  She  was 
fatahst  as  well  as  stoic. 

On  the  occasion  just  recorded  there  was  undoubtedly  a 
perceptible  pause — a  time  of  heart-panic  for  the  girl, 
and  for  the  lady  a  time  during  which  she  sat  looking 
into  vacancy,  motionless  except  for  the  bhnking  of  her 
white  eyelashes,  and  for  a  trembhng  so  slight  that  it 
could  scarcely  have  been  discerned  by  anybody,  and  cer- 
tainly not  by  her  grandchild.  She  recovered  herself  al- 
most at  once.  Her  tongue  went  twice  to  her  lips,  her 
hand  twitched  a  little;  and  then  she  said,  with  extreme 
politeness — 

"Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  repeat  yourself,  and 
more  slowly  ?"  Even  this  concession  to  the  frailty  of  her 
age  she  would  have  forborne  had  she  been  able. 


132  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Commanding  her  nerves,  the  girl  obeyed  her,  and  had 
the  good  sense  not  to  add  a  word  to  the  bare  announce- 
ment. Again  Lady  INIorfa  was  silent  for  a  while;  and 
during  that  pause  it  is  safe  to  affirm  that  if  by  any 
conceivable  act  she  could  have  humiliated  this  child, 
she  would  have  stooped  to  use  it.  There  was  one — there 
was  one  thing  she  could  have  said,  plainly  or  by  in- 
nuendo, which  might  have  brought  her  to  her  knees  ;  but 
it  shows  how  fallible  the  youngest  of  us  may  be,  in  our 
interpretation  of  our  neighbours,  that  Miss  Harriet 
Moon's  reading  of  her  in  just  such  a  crisis  as  this  was 
entirely  at  fault.  It  never  entered  Lady  Morfa's  head 
that  Vernour  was  a  fine  young  man  or  that  her  grand- 
daughter was  a  fine  young  woman.  What  she  saw  with 
blank  dismay  was  a  chit  of  a  girl  who  had  upset  her  au- 
thority, and  done  it  in  so  simple  a  manner  that  she  was 
powerless  to  reassert  it  without  becoming  absurd.  Once 
before  she  had  been  defied,  by  this  child's  mother;  but 
Lady  Hermione  had  climbed  her  wall  in  the  night,  had 
fled  the  country  with  Dick  of  the  Gallop — while  this 
Hermia  Mary  acting,  in  the  broad  light  of  day  and 
Bond  Street,  had  walked  out  of  the  gates,  and  returned 
to  take  her  punishment.  Now,  the '  serious  thing  was 
that  there  was  no  punishment  to  give  her.  Anti-climax 
was  unavoidable,  since  the  death  penalty  was  out  of 
date.  The  baffled  lady,  driven  to  temporise,  maintained 
her  dignity  unruffled.  It  was  all  she  had  left  her  at  the 
moment. 


WE  RAISE  OUR  EYEBROWS  133 

"I  think  that  I  understand  you,"  she  said;  "that  is,  I 
hear  what  jou  tell  me  you  have  done.  Further  than  that 
I  cannot  go.  You  may  have  reasons  for  compromising 
yourself  which — "  The  girl's  lip  trembled,  but  she 
burst  in  upon  the  icy  stream 

"Oh,  grandmamma,  how  could  you  have  been  so  cruel? 
How  could  I  bear  it!" 

"No  discussions,  please,  Hermia."  She  put  up  her 
hand.  "Those  are  out  of  the  question  between  you  and 
me.  You  will  go  to  your  room,  if  you  please,  and  remain 
there  until  I  send  for  you." 

Miss  Hermia  had  risen  to  hear  her  sentence.  "I  will 
do  as  you  wish,"  she  said,  and  turned,  and  reached  the 
door.  There  she  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  came  swiftly 
back. 

"I  must  tell  you  this — "  she  spoke  with  passion.  "You 
will  do  a  great  injustice  to  Harriet  if  you  suppose  that 
she  knows  anything  of  what  I  have  done.  Nobody  knows 
of  it  but  you." 

"You  forget  Vernour  and  his  family,  I  think,"  said 
Lady  Morfa,  and  sent  the  blood  to  her  cheeks. 

"Naturally  I  don't  forget  the  person  to  whom  I  had  to 
go.  But  neither  he,  nor  Harriet,  nor  any  one  in  the 
world  knew  that  I  intended  what  I  have  done ;  nor  did  I 
know  it  until  last  night.    So  that  Harriet " 

Lady  Morfa  nodded  sharply.  "I  believe  3'ou.  I  cannot 
suppose  that  you  would  have  told  anybody  whom  j'ou  be- 
lieved to  be  sane  that  you  intended  what  you  tell  me  you 


134  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

have  done.  And  since  you  seem  to  be  in  doubt,  I  don't 
mind  assuring  you  that  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  speak- 
ing to  ]\Ioon  about  your  affairs  or  my  own." 

Hermia  still  stood,  hovering,  as  it  were,  on  the  edge  of 
tears,  A  look  or  a  gesture  would  have  brought  her 
down,  her  face  in  the  old  woman's  lap.  Her  story  would 
have  been  sobbed  out,  her  wondrous  good  reasons,  and  her 
wondrous  bad  ones.  And  it  is  very  possible — I  speak 
with  reverence — that  Lady  Morfa's  eyes  were  danger- 
ously charged ;  that  Lady  Morfa,  had  she  dared,  would 
have  opened  her  arms.  But  she  could  not  for  the  life  of 
her.  Hers  was  that  nature  which  must  wear  a  mask  or 
feel  naked.  To  have  tears  is  as  shameful  as  to  be  dnuik ; 
in  each  case  you  exhibit  yourself  as  you  are,  instead  of 
as  you  intend  to  be — and  that's  the  unforgivable  act. 
It  is  a  mistake  to  think  that  either  she  or  her  grandchild 
was  unemotional ;  each  went  vibrating  with  emotion.  The 
only  difference  in  the  pride  they  both  owned  to  was  that 
where  the  elder  would  never  admit  to  feeling  what  was 
asked  of  her,  the  younger  would  never  deny  it.  So  there 
stood  one  with  her  heart  in  her  hands,  and  there  sat  the 
other  with  hers  in  a  cage — and  the  tale  goes  on. 

In  a  few  seconds  more  Miss  Chambre  was  out  of  the 
door  and  upstairs ;  and  all  that  Harriet  could  learn  was 
that  she  was  in  her  own  rooms  and  would  remain  there 
for  the  present. 

The  daily  and  nightly  round  of  Caryll  House  was  not 
to  be  disturbed  by  the  incredible  acts  of  a  little  Miss 


WE  RAISE  OUR  EYEBROWS  135 

Chambre ;  but,  nevertheless,  Lady  Morf a  was  more  per- 
turbed than  she  could  have  ever  been  brought  to  confess. 
Metaphorically  she  may  be  said  to  have  lifted  up  her 
hands  at  a  thing  which  passed  behef.  And  she  saw  it, 
mind  you,  at  its  full  value ;  it  was  no  mere  silly  gush  of  a 
school-girl.  Had  it  been  so,  a  day  or  two's  bread  and 
water  would  have  requited  it.  No,  but  it  had  a  symboli- 
cal force ;  it  was  a  surrender  of  the  whole  Whig  position 
to  a  beleaguering  horde,  whose  mass  and  momentum  she 
felt  as  keenly  as  anybody.  It  was  an  act  of  treachery 
from  within  quite  beyond  experience.  The  man  Vemour 
was  a  Radical,  known  to  be  a  Radical,  supported  by  the 
whole  reforming  press.  She  had  taken  her  stand  against 
him  from  the  outset ;  she  had  strained  the  law — she  knew 
that;  she  had  not  disdained  the  assistance  of  the  official 
enemy  to  combat  this  new  invasion,  which  she  could  see 
was  far  more  serious  to  her  order  than  a  whole  country- 
side of  Tories.  And  she  had  won — she  had  stooped  and 
won.  And  now  she  was  betrayed  into  the  hands  of  her 
foes  in  such  a  way  that  she  could  not  even  cry  out  against 
the  traitor.  She  could  do  nothing;  she  was  perfectly 
powerless.  If  she  treated  Hermia  as  she  deserved,  she 
would  exhibit  the  magnitude  of  her  own  defeat;  if  she 
overlooked  the  affair,  she  would  seem  to  admit  the  knowl- 
edge of  her  own  deserts.  Never  was  an  ancient  and  great 
lady  in  such  a  quandary. 

Next,  a  sudden  blow — from  an  unexpected  quarter  in- 
deed— was  like  to  have  quelled  her.     When  she  told  her 


136  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

son,  as  she  thought  it  her  duty,  what  had  been  done 
against  the  house  of  Caryll,  the  young  lord  repHed  with 
the  astounding  words,  "She's  a  good  plucked  one,  I 
must  say."  He  went  on  to  add  that  she  had  done  what 
he  ought  to  have  done  long  ago — that,  by  God!  he 
was  very  much  obliged  to  her,  and  should  tell  her  so. 
That  he  did  not  was  simply  due  to  his  mother's 
positive  entreaty.  She  did  not  attempt  to  argue 
with  him  upon  the 'merits;  in  fact,  he  had  robbed  her  of 
the  power  to  do  that ;  but  she  said  that  if  that  were  done, 
she  should  leave  London  and  never  return  to  it — and  he 
gave  way.  But  he  frankly  told  her  that  he  knew  he  had 
behaved  "damn  badly,"  and  that  if  the  fellow  had  not 
raised  his  dander  he  should  have  apologised.  "Upon  my 
soul,  ma'am,  it  was  his  due.  If  I'm  a  gentleman,  as  I 
suppose  I  am,  that's  the  line  of  country  to  follow.  But 
I  got  cross,  and  then  you  got  cross — and  there's  -no 
going  back  then.  By  my  soul  and  body,  though !"  and 
here  he  whistled,  his  hands  deep  in  his  breeches  pockets — 
"by  my  soul  and  body,  but  that  gel's  a  game  chicken!" 
He  rose  to  go.  "She's  done  our  work  for  us,  ma'am, 
and  I  for  one  am  very  much  obliged  to  her.  I'm  going 
to  Brighton  this  afternoon — sent  for  this  morning — says 
he  must  have  me ;  so  I'll  bid  you  good-bye,  ma'am.  But 
when  I  come  back  I  do  hope  I  shall  find  Miss  Henny  on 
your  lap  again — I  must  say  that." 

This,  too,  was  more  or  less  the  opinion  of  Lord  John 
Botetort,  Lady  Morfa's  own  and  favourite  brother,  to 


WE  RAISE  OUR  EYEBROWS  137 

whom  in  her  perplexity  she  confided  the  tale.  He  was  a 
tall,  lean-headed  gentleman,  something  of  a  buck  and  a 
viveur,  a  club-man  and  great  patron  of  the  opera.  His 
white  whiskers  were  close-cut  and  carefully  brushed  for- 
ward, his  buckskins  were  flawless  and  apparently  seam- 
less, his  coat  was  of  bottle-green.  "Jane,"  he  said,  and 
confirmed  it  with  an  oath,  "I'll  tell  you  what  it  is.  That 
gal's  too  many  for  3"ou — and  a  fine,  free-spoken  gal  she 
is.  Jack  Polperro  had  just  such  another — you  remember 
her,  and  what  she  did.  The  whole  country  knew  it — half 
of  'em  saw  it,  by  George !  And  he  was  a  farmer — gentle- 
man-farmer, as  they  say ;  but  Jack  Polperro  was  never 
the  same  man  again.  You  marry  her,  Jane,  or  we  shall 
all  be  in  the  papers.  By  Gad,  ma'am,  we  are  in  the  pa- 
pers already !  It  don't  want  much  in  these  days  to  get 
the  mob  about  your  windows  or  about  j^our  ears.  Look 
at  the  Prince — look  at  him,  I  say !  Why,  when  he  goes 
down  St.  James's  Street  you'd  think  'twas  a  thief -taker 
going  to  be  hanged.  .  .  .  This  fellow  of  yours,  mind 
you,  is  a  red-hot  fellow — speaks  in  Old  Palace  Yard — 
is  in  with  Bob  Ranald  and  Burdett — and  all  of  'em.  I 
tell  you  he's  the  pet  of  the  public,  and,  mark  my  words, 
if  you  don't  look  nine  ways  for  Sunday,  you'll  get  her 
chaired  beside  him — sure  as  you're  here." 

Lady  Morfa  looked  her  bleakest.  "I  must  send  her 
away,  John — it's  clear." 

"If  you  send  her  away,  my  lady,"  said  her  brother,  "you 
send  her  straight  to  him — not  a  doubt  of  it.    And  if  you 


138  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

take  my  advice,  you'll  let  the  fellow  alone.  The  less  you 
handle  him  the  better.  You've  handled  him  only  too  well 
as  it  is.  Six  weeks'  chokee!  Why,  five  guineas  would 
have  done  it — at  the  start — and  what's  five  hundred  to 
getting  in  the  papers  ?  No,  no — marry  the  gal  out  of 
hand — you'll  have  no  trouble  there,  and  let  her  husband 
have  the  training  of  her.     I  wish  him  joy." 

And  then,  almost  word  for  word,  he  echoed  his  nephew 
Morfa.  "Not  but  what  I  admire  her,  you  know.  I  do, 
uncommonly.  There  was  pluck  in  that — the  sort  of 
pluck  one  is  pleased  to  have  in  the  family.  Proper  pride 
— what !  a  game-bird !  Let  me  tell  you,  my  lady,  that  if 
humble  pie  has  got  to  be  eaten,  that's  the  way  to  eat 
it.  Bolt  it  whole,  by  Gad !  Zounds,  sister,  Fd  marry  the 
girl  myself,  take  her  off  your  hands,  if  I  wasn't  her 
uncle,  and  be  proud  of  her.  The  girl  who  knelt  to  the 
butcher,  eh.''  Fine  thing  in  its  way — you'll  have  Cruik- 
shank  at  it  before  long,  see  if  you  don't.  Damn  fine 
thing,  and  if  I  could  have  done  it,  I  would."  He  was 
anxious  to  see  Hermia — couldn't  do  any  harm,  he  sup- 
posed ;  but  Lady  Morfa  was  by  no  means  of  that  opinion. 

The  daily  and  nightly  round,  however,  went  on  un- 
disturbed. Great  persons  came  and  went,  diners,  callers ; 
great  assemblies  heard  the  Countess  of  Morfa  announced 
from  hall  to  stair,  from  stair-foot  to  stair-head,  and 
thrilled,  or  were  believed  to  thrill,  as  of  old.  The  Earl 
went  to  Brighton,  unconscious  that  he  had  disgraced  his 
family;  Lord  Crowland  did  not,  perhaps,  observe  that 


WE  RAISE  OUR  EYEBROWS  139 

one  pretty  girl  was  absent  from  the  long  table,  nor  Mr. 
Rogers  that  there  was  a  laugher  the  less.  Mr.  Aloysius 
Banks,  dining  at  Caryll  House  for  the  first  time  in  his 
vexed  progress  up  the  shining  ranks  of  the  Constitution, 
may  have  regretted  that  his  "lovely  friend"  could  not 
admire  his  triumph — but  only  for  a  moment.  He  admired 
it  too  sincerely  himself  to  need  any  assistance.  "Lady 
Morfa,  in  whose  company  I  happened  to  be  dining,"  or 
"dining  at  Caryll  House  the  other  day" — fine  phrases. 
It  is  possible  even  that  Mr.  Banks  may  have  learned 
something  of  her  escapade — for  the  thing  spread  about 
town,  as  we  shall  see — and  may  have  accorded  himself  a 
delicate  mission  with  regard  to  it.  There  was  a  para- 
graph in  the  Morning  Chronicle  of  a  late  April  issue 
which  seems  plausibly  his.  "Those  leaders  of  faction, 
whose  attacks  upon  a  noble  house,  by  the  very  excess  of 
their  rancour,  so  singularly  failed,  have  now  renewed 
them  in  a  more  insidious  form.  Having  failed  to  destroy, 
they  now  seek  to  divide.  It  has  been  freely  said,  in  jour- 
nals which  it  would  be  unbecoming  to  name,  that,"  &c., 
&c.  .  .  .  "We  are  assured  by  those  best  entitled  to  judge 
that  no  member  of  the  exalted  house  in  question  has  tak- 
en leave  of  his  senses,  and  need  hardly  add  that,  had  he 
done  so,  Mr.  Cobbett  would  be  the  last  person  to  be  ap- 
prised of  it."  Not  unskilfully  steered,  by  any  means :  he 
may  be  congratulated. 

But  are  we,  I  wonder,  to  congratulate  Miss  Harriet 
Moon,  when,   not  long   after  the   incarceration   of  her 


140  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

friend,  she  goes  up  Brook  Street  on  an  errand  of  her 
own  ?  That  is  what  she  did ;  and  more :  she  went  unerr- 
ingly to  the  wicket-gate  of  Vernour  and  Son,  and  passed 
it.  She  braved  the  pale  young  man  in  the  glass  case, 
and  asked  to  see  Mr.  David  Vernour.  Mr.  David  was  in, 
and  was  not  long  in  presenting  himself  either.  She 
fancied  that  his  face  fell ;  her  o\vn  was  charmingly  apolo- 
getic. 

She  begged  pardon  for  interinipting  Mr.  Vernour,  but 
imagined  that  Miss  Chambre  must  have  left  her  sunshade 
behind  her  when  she  called  a  few  days  ago.  A  white  silk 
sunshade,  ivory-handled,  silk  tassels.  It  was  not  to  be 
found  at  Gary  11  House,  and  it  was  almost  certain  that  she 
had  had  it  in  her  hand.  ]Miss  ]\Ioon  was  positive — nearly 
positive — ^that  she  had  seen  it. 

Mv.  Vernour  denied  the  sunshade.  Not  only  was  it  not 
here,  but  Miss  Chambre  had  not  carried  it.  Had  she 
asked  for  it? 

No,  Miss  Moon  could  not  say  that.  In  fact,  she  had  not 
been  able  to  see  Miss  Chambre  since  that  day.  Miss 
Chambre  had  returned  to  Caryll  House  and  had  at  once 
seen  Lady  Morfa — since  which  time  she  had  been  in  her 
apartments.  Miss  Moon's  brown  eyes  were  very  large 
at  this  minute,  largely  inquiring  of  the  shop  and  the  car- 
cases of  beasts  which  it  contained — largely  apprehensive 
and  sympathetic ;  and  they  lighted  presently  upon  Mr. 
Vemour's  and  were  perceived  to  be  dewj. 

Vernour  was  observed  by  her  to  be  very  red,  and  to  be 


WE  RAISE  OUR  EYEBROWS  141 

frowning.  She  had  reason  to  complain  of  his  tone, 
which  was  short — almost  surly. 

"I  trust  that  Miss  Chambre  is  well?" 

"Oh,  indeed,  I  trust  she  is.  She  is  my  dear  friend.  And 
she  was  in  the  highest  spirits  on  the  day  of  our  walk." 

"I  need  not  tell  you,  madam,  that  her  welfare  is  much 
to  us  here."    He  spoke  with  difficulty. 

"No,  indeed ;  that  is  very  natural,"  said  Miss  Harriet. 
"She  is — you  will  understand — liable  to  alternations  of 
feeling.  Those  who  love  her  can  allow  for  that ;  but  some 
complain  of  it.  She  is  not  easy  to  understand."  And 
then  Miss  Moon  sighed. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN   WHICH  WE  HAVE   TWO   NOBLE   SUITORS   AT    THE   GATES 

T  N  divers  ways  and  by  sundry  persons  the  Imprisoned 
"*■  fair  was  impressed  upon  her  grandmother  until  it  came 
really  to  this,  that  to  keep  her  confined  was  almost  as 
preposterous  as  her  offence  had  been.  There's  no  doubt 
that  the  freely  expressed  opinions  of  her  son  and  her 
brother,  John  Botetort,  had  shaken  the  old  gentlewoman  ; 
she  as  good  as  owned  to  herself  that  it  would  not  do  for 
Roddy  to  return  and  find  his  niece  still  in  prison.  But 
before  she  had  been  there  much  more  than  a  week  certain 
things  occurred  which  made  her  enlargement  a  question 
of  hours. 

It  seems,  then,  that  she  had  been  missed  from  the  dinner- 
table  after  all  by  some  of  her  acquaintance,  and  that 
my  Lord  Sandgate  was  one  who  had  missed  her.  A  week 
after  her  disgrace  this  gentleman,  a  widower  of  five 
years'  standing,  a  man  of  substance  and  weight  in  the 
country,  called  upon  Lady  Morfa  and  asked  leave  in 
form  to  pay  Miss  Chambre  his  addresses.  He  frankly 
admitted  that  his  acquaintance  with  her  was  slight  and 
his  resolution  to  improve  it  sudden.  But  if  he  was  quick 
to  make  up  his  mind,  he  dared  say  that  he  was  slow  to 
change  it.    His  political  opinions  were  well  known  to  her 


TWO  NOBLE  SUITORS  143 

ladyship,  and  he  was  not  without  grounds  of  belief  that 
Miss  Chambre's  coincided  with  them.  He  believed  that  the 
proposals  he  could  make  would  be  found  perfectly  satis- 
factory, had  no  doubt  that  he  should  be  the  most  fortu- 
nate of  men,  and — paused  for  a  reply.  Such  a  serious 
offer  made  Lady  Morfa  serious.  She  promised  to  con- 
sider it ;  she  told  Lord  Sandgate  that  she  was  flattered. 
It  was  not  at  all  true,  but  she  could  hardly  say  less, 
knowing  in  her  heart  that  it  ought  to  be  true.  The  man 
was  a  great  gentleman  and  a  weighty ;  Radical  or  not, 
he  would  assuredly  be  an  earl.  And  when  he  left  her, 
which  he  shortly  did  in  a  very  dignified  manner,  she  did 
consider  him  and  his  proposal  together ;  and,  though  he 
got  no  benefit  out  of  that,  the  girl  did,  for  she  had  to  be 
considered  also.  It  became  a  pressing  question  whether 
an  impertinence  beyond  belief  was  sufficient  reason  for 
shutting  up  a  very  possible  peeress. 

A  few  days  later  on  another  gentleman,  ignorant  of  the 
first  offer,  came  to  woo.  This  was  Tom  Rodono,  another 
Member  of  Parliament,  another  eldest  son,  a  man  of 
fashion  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Lady  Morfa  now  felt  that 
she  was  being  made  ridiculous ;   and  that  settled  it. 

Lord  Rodono,  when  he  was  given  to  understand  by 
Miss  Harriet  Moon  that  Hermia  Mary  was  in  disgrace, 
jumped  at  once  to  the  nature  of  her  offence.  He  remem- 
bered her  look  of  fury  at  the  dinner-party,  when  Mervyn 
Touchett  dined  his  last  at  that  table.  "She's  made  a 
scene  about  Vernour.    What  a  spirit !    What  a  flame  of 


144  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

a  girl !"  He  knew  that  he  was  in  love  with  her ;  he  had 
known  it  for  a  long  time ;  but  he  didn't  guess  how  much 
he  wanted  her  until  he  was  told  by  Lady  Morfa  that  it 
was  out  of  the  question.  She  was  tolerant  of  him,  good- 
humoured — for,  after  all,  the  proposal  was  not  bad — 
and  put  on  more  manner  than  she  generally  affected. 
"My  dear  lord,  your  sentiments  do  you  credit.  Hermia 
is  very  much  honoured — very  much  honoured,  I  am 
bound  to  say.  But  I  must  not  disguise  from  you  that  I 
have  other  views — family  interests,  family  claims,  in- 
deed— for  the  child.  She  is  very  young,  quite  unformed, 
and  rather  headstrong — ^that,  no  doubt,  you  have  seen 
for  yourself ;  and,  of  course,  her  education  has  not  been 
all  that  one  could  wish.  Her  poor  father — perhaps  I 
need  not  speak  of  Colonel  Chambre.  You  know  my  opin- 
ion upon  subjects  in  which  he — most  unfortunately — 
poor  man !  But  with  regard  to  Hermia,  you  will  forgive 
me  if  I  don't  mention  this  kind,  this  very  honourable 
proposition  of  yours  to  her — let  us  say,  for  the  present, 
at  any  rate.  The  child  is  not  one-and-twenty  until 
October,  and  is  in  my  charge  for  another  four  years. 
Meantime,  I  trust  so  entirely  in  your  discretion  and — 
you  will  allow  me.'* — good  sense,  that  I  hope  we  shall 
lose  none  of  the  intercourse  which  has  been  so  pleas- 
ant, not  only  to  Roderick  and  myself,  but  to  Hermia 
also." 

He  had  expected  no  less.     "A  thousand  thanks,  my 
lady,"  he  said  lightly.     "No,  I  hope  to  see  as  much  of 


TWO  NOBLE  SUITORS  145 

Caryll  House  as  Caryll  House  will  put  up  with.  Don't 
be  afraid  that  I  shall  go  behind  your  authority,  ma'am. 
That's  not  the  way  of  it,  I  assure  you." 

"Of  course,  of  course,  my  dear  lord.  I  know  with 
whom  I  have  to  deal."  She  was  perfectly  gracious  to 
the  poor  gentleman-^who  felt  more  poorly  than  he  cared 
to  own.  A  waiting  game,  eh.'^  He  was  in  for  a  spell  of 
Jacob's  wooing.  But  that  rascally  Jacob  permitted 
himself  consolation  which  Lord  Rodono  now  felt  to  be 
impossible  for  him.  Five  years  for  Hermia !  Yes,  but 
that  glorious  young  creature  to  be  kept  five  years ! 
He  knew  his  chance  was  of  the  slenderest.  Meanwhile, 
where  on  earth  had  old  Mother  Morfa  got  her  in 
ward .'' 

He  put  in  a  word  or  two  in  mitigation  of  her  supposed 
offence,  spoke  of  his  father  and  sister,  who  had  fallen  in 
love  with  her.  "You  might  spare  her  to  Grizel  now  and 
again,  my  lady.  She'll  be  safe  with  her,  I  know,  and 
be  well  out  of  this  fly-blown  town.  No  politics  at  Peter- 
sham, I  promise  you." 

That  was  unlucky.  Lady  Morfa  bristled,  became  bird- 
like. "Politics,  Lord  Rodono !  Politics — and  a  child  in 
her  teens  !  No  politics  anywhere  for  my  granddaughter, 
I  can  assure  you." 

"Pm  with  you  there,  my  lady,"  said  Rodono.  "It's  a 
grubby  business  for  a  lady's  fingers."  He  had  said  more 
than  he  need,  as  he  saw,  and  took  leave.  Coming  out,  he 
found  Harriet  close  to  the  door,  and  made  her  jump. 


146  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"Ha,  Miss  Harriet,  so  I've  caught  you,  have  I?"  He 
wasn't  very  fond  of  this  young  lady,  and  allowed  himself 
to  be  blunt  with  her. 

Miss  Harriet  put  her  hand  to  her  side.  "Oh,  Lord 
Rodono,  I  was  just " 

"I  know  you  were.  Miss  Harriet;  I  know  you 
were." 

"I  made  sure  that  I  heard  her  ladyship's  bell.  Indeed 
I " 

"Don't  be  afraid,  my  dear.  I  shan't  bite — my  teeth 
are  drawn.  Let  me  know  if  I  can  be  of  any  use,  though  I 
believe  you'll  have  Miss  Hermy  out  before  long,  and  you 
may  tell  her  that  I  told  you  so." 

"But  I  am  not  allowed  to  see  her.  Lord  Rodono — and  I 
don't  know  what  it  can  have  been."  This  must  surely 
have  been  added  for  practice. 

"Nor  I,  and  I  wish  to  heaven  I  did.  I'll  send  Lady 
Grizel  to  her — but  she'll  be  out  in  a  day  or  two,  I 
fancy."    And  away  he  went  to  his  tilbury. 

The  two  noble  gentlemen,  unconsciously  rival,  met  in 
the  House  that  warm  afternoon,  and  yawned  together 
upon  the  roomy  benches  of  the  Opposition.  A  dreary 
debate  was  in  progress  of  the  usual  kind — of  that  kind 
which  made  Captain  Ranald  long  for  a  pike,  "to  end  the 
cackling  and  get  something  done."  Mr.  Peroival  was 
voicing  his  lamentations  over  some  betrayal  of  "the  gen- 
erous instincts,  the  warm-hearted  motions  so  creditable  to 
his  right  honourable  friend;"    Lord  Castlereagh  was 


TWO  NOBLE  SUITORS  147 

trimming  his  nails ;  Mr.  Canning,  showing  his  teeth, 
pretended  a  smile.  The  debts  of  Walcheren  were  mass- 
ing, and  soon  must  be  met. 

Lord  Sandgate  handed  a  Weekly  Register,  folded,  to 
Rodono.  "Seen  that,  Tom?"  Rodono,  his  hat  over  his 
eyes,  began  to  read  languidly,  but  was  soon  keenly  inter- 
ested. 

"An  act  of  Carylldom  has  lately  come  to  my  notice, 
an  act  done  to  Mr.  Vernour  the  butcher,  of  which  I 
candidly  confess  I  had  not  believed  that  precious  house 
capable.  But  I  was  wrong,  and  offer  my  apologies — 
where  they  are  due."  j\Ir.  Cobbett  proceeded  to  nail 
down  the  facts — facts  which  we  know.  "Mr.  Vernour, 
in  the  course  of  his  business,  one  day  last  week  received 
a  visit  from  a  personage — a  young  personage  of  high 
rank,"  etc. 

He  named  no  names,  he  was  sedulously  reserved. 
"This,"  he  concluded,  "I  declare  to  be  a  royal  act  in  the 
true  sense  of  a  word  sadly  out  of  season  just  now.  And 
I  will  say  rather,  for  that  reason,  that  it  is  an  heroic 
act,  worthy  of  him  who  served  his  prisoner  on  his  knees, 
great  Edward's  greater  son.  This,  in  fact,  was  an  un- 
commonly  spirited  affair,  conducted  by  the  last  Caryll  in 
the  world  whom  one  could  have  thought  had  dared  it.  I 
could  give  a  name  if  need  were — but  no!  Let  me  learn 
from  the  act  and  the  actors  in  it  to  emulate  their  own 
modesty ;  let  nothing  I  may  write  infringe  upon  the 
sacred  prerogative  of  youth,  innocence,  and  beauty." 


148  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Rodono  read  that  twice  with  heightened  colour.  It  told 
him  all. 

Sandgate  was  watching  him  keenly.  "Know  who  that 
is  ?"  The  other  nodded.  "It  could  only  be  one  of  them. 
Yes,  yes,  I  know."  And  then  he  jerked  his  foot  out,  and 
let  his  head  sink  into  his  breast.  "By  heaven !  I  can't 
touch  her  hem !  I'm  not  fit — "  was  his  thought ;  but  to 
Lord  Sandgate  he  said,  "You  know  that  she  could 
do  it?" 

Sandgate  now  nodded.  "She  could  do  more  than  that 
.  .  .  and  that  old  bitch-wolf  has  her  locked  up !  .  .  . 
Cobbett  must  be  told — I'll  tell  him.  .  . '  .  By  Gad,  sir, 
we'll  shame  the  old  woman  into  honesty." 

They  resumed  the  subject  at  Brooks's.  Lord  Sandgate 
was  for  a  meeting  between  Cobbett  and  Miss  Chambre. 
"I  should  like  to  see  her  catch  fire.  By  heaven,  Tom,  she 
could  lead  an  army  in  the  field — or  to  Windsor !  We'll 
have  our  revolution  yet." 

Rodono  declared  himself.  "I'm  a  victim.  She's  re- 
cruited me — but  I  shall  have  to  wait.  Mother  Morfa 
won't  look  at  me." 

"Nor  at  me,  damn  her !"  said  his  friend.  Rodono  looked 
up.     "What,  you  too?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sandgate,  "and  I  feel  like  wasting  the 
world  for  a  glance  of  her  eyes."  This  grave  gentleman, 
who  sat  nursing  his  leg,  was  very  much  in  earnest.  "It's 
a  great  game — to  serve  the  like  of  her,  Tom.  She's  got 
the  air  of  a  young  Amazon — spoiling  for  it." 


TWO  NOBLE  SUITORS  149 

"War's  in  her  blood,  I'll  allow  you." 

"And  service  in  mine.  To  hold,  as  it  were,  her  armour, 
hand  it  in  piece  by  piece — the  greaves,  the  cuisses,  the 
breastplate  and  gorget.  Picture  her,  sir,  cap-a-pie!  To 
gird  on  the  sword,  and  put  the  spear  in  the  young  mailed 
hand ! " 

"Damn  it,  Sandgate,  I'm  with  you  there ! " 

"I'd  like  to  run  at  her  stirrup,"  said  Lord  Sandgate. 
"She's  a  Maid  of  Orleans — she's  a  Virgin-Saviour — 
she's  one  to  die  for!  She's  got  eyes  like  a  midsummer 
eve — eyes  with  fires  dancing  in  'em — eyes  ahght.  To 
have  seen  her  in  that  butcher's  shop!" 

Lord  Rodono  could  not  follow  his  friend  so  far.  "No, 
no,  Sandgate,  keep  her  away  from  the  mob.  She's  too 
fine  for  that.  To  have  done  it  once — to  show  her  mettle 
— that's  enough.  But  lead  her  into  this  filthy  trade  we're 
at,  she'll  draggle.  Cobbett — Cobbett  and  her! — is  he 
man  enough,  gentleman  enough?" 

"She's  a  cut  above  gentlemen,  my  friend,"  said  Lord 
Sandgate,  very  sure  of  himself;  "she's  got  hands  too 
fine  for  kid  gloves.  It's  a  man  she  must  cope  with — a 
man  of  ten  thousand." 

He  grew  excited ;  he  rose  and  stood,  back  to  the  grate. 
"She  shall  meet  Cobbett  and  all  his  men.  She  shall  see 
old  square-cut  Cartwright  —  Burdett  —  Wolsely  —  old 
Tooke,  the  keen  old  spider.  She  shall  see  the  lot,  and 
hear  'em  at  their  bloodiesL  I'll  back  her.  Let  her  be 
the  test — if  they   pass  through  lier  fire,  they're  men. 


150  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

She's  of  a  rare  breed — not  a  woman,  but  a  flame !    And 
now  I'll  go  to  bed." 

"If  she's  not  a  woman,  then  it's  certain  that  I'm  not  a 
man,"  said  Rodono  to  himself.  And  back  he  too  stalked 
to  Park  Place,  where  he  lodged. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN    WHICH    WE    STAND    AT    THE    WINDOW 

rr^  IME  flies  as  the  heart  flies.  Within  six  hours  of  the 
'■■  Act  of  Brook  Street,  Vernour  and  she,  Brook  Street 
itself  and  the  whole  wild  incredible  errand — the  Resolve, 
which  had  been,  as  it  were,  the  watching  of  the  arms ; 
the  Dedication,  when  she  rose  that  morning  to  her  task ; 
the  Sally,  the  fulfilling  of  the  Vow,  the  fiery  ordeal  of  the 
Return — lay  whole  and  composed,  a  legend,  and  a  golden 
legend,  in  her  memory.  As  she  put  by  her  arms  she  felt 
exceedingly  complacent  that  her  task  was  smoothly  done. 
It  had  been  difficult,  more  difficult  than  she  had  ex- 
pected ;  she  did  not  stay  to  examine  why — all  she  knew 
at  this  first  blush  of  release  was  that  she  had  triumphed. 
She  had  been  loyal — so  she  put  it — to  her  traditions ; 
she  had  kept  alive  in  her  own  breast  the  flame  which  her 
father  had  kindled  there.  She  had  championed  the  Rights 
of  Man. 

Very  much  excited,  her  mind  alert,  her  imagination  fly- 
ing high  and  far,  she  flitted  to  and  fro,  traversing  her 
little  kingdom  of  two  rooms  a  thousand  times.  Her 
thoughts  j  ust  now  were  entirely  pious ;  she  remembered 
her  father  without  mourning  him  any  more;  her  gentle 
mother,  too,  to  whom  every  whim  of  her  husband's  had 


152  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

been  a  law.  She  remembered  how  fine  had  been  Lady 
Hermione's  loyal  acceptance  of  the  democratic  faith ; 
she  remembered,  for  instance — and  it  didn't  seem  in  the 
least  ridiculous — that  she  had  tried  to  be  "Citizen  Her- 
mione,"  as  the  colonel  was  Citizen  Chambre,  and  had 
only  given  it  up  because  it  was  so  extremely  difficult  to 
say.  Another  trouble  had  been  that  the  peasantry  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  such  freaks  of  naming ;  her 
father  had  always  been  "the  Cornel's  Honour,"  and  her 
mother  *'My  lady."  There  had  been  a  time — no  more 
than  a  week  ago — when  Hermia  would  have  laughed,  say 
with  Tom  Rodono,  over  these  things ;  but  now,  swiftly 
roaming  her  prison,  she  thought  them  splendid.  They 
made  her  heart  beat.  When  she  caught  sight  of  her  own 
face,  as  she  passed  the  looking-glass,  she  hardly  knew 
herself  in  this  eager,  flushed  War-Maid,  whose  grey 
eyes  shone  like  jet,  whose  lips  were  parted  and  hair 
streaming  free.  In  the  glow  and  fervency  of  her 
thoughts  she  wrote — standing  to  do  it — to  Mary  Fox: 
and  how  her  pen  raced  over  the  sheet !  .  .  .  "I  am 
perfectly  satisfied  I  have  done  right.  Don't  seek  to 
persuade  me  otherwise,  Mary — scold  me  if  you  like,  but 
no  sophisms.  I  have  been  living  these  last  few  hours 
with  papa  and  mamma — I  have  seen  them  as  plain  as  I 
see  this  paper.  They  look  kindly  at  me,  their  eyes 
smile — they  would  stroke  my  hair,  and  papa  would  kiss 
me,  if  they  weren't  ghosts.  I  have  heard  again,  with 
perfect  distinctness,  dear  papa's   favourite  paradox — 


WE  STAND  AT  THE  WINDOW         153 

Alzcat/s  he  proud  enough  to  he  humble,  my  Hermy.  I 
am  sure  that  I  have  pleased  him.  I  don't  care  what  hap- 
pens to  me  now." 

She  left  her  letter  here  because  that  last  half-phrase 
had  struck  her  as  so  curiously  true  that  she  had  to  con- 
sider it.  She  walked  about  again,  stood  at  the  win- 
dov.'s — that  of  her  bedroom,  which  gave  on  to  the  walled 
garden ;  that  of  her  boudoir,  which  showed  her  the  court- 
yard in  front,  the  statue  of  Earl  Rupert,  the  locked 
gates,  and  the  lodge.  And  it  was  at  this  latter  window 
that  she  made  a  discovery.  She  found  herself  blushing 
and  trembling:  very  slightly,  it's  true,  but  trembling 
she  was,  and  blushing — and  extremely  happy.  Why  was 
this.''  What  had  happened.''  She  stayed  her  researches 
into  her  own  thoughts ;  she  left  her  questions  un- 
answered— but  she  did  not  cease  to  put  them. 

The  legend  was  rehearsed,  that  golden  legend — step  by 
step  to  Brook  Street,  step  b}"  step  of  the  return.  But 
there  was  a  noticeable  hiatus.  She  always  skipped  the 
scene  with  Vernour  where  she  had  passed  under  his  arm 
into  the  little  parlour,  and  where  she  had  felt  that  most 
peculiar  sensation  of  being  a  bird  fluttering  under  a 
hand.  She  approached  it  always  in  her  thought  with 
high  beating  of  the  heart ;  but  then  she  closed  her  eyes 
and  felt  herself  burning,  and  lost  herself  in  the  fire — 
and  when  she  came  to  herself  again,  she  was  either  talk- 
ing of  the  Clanranald  family  to  Mrs.  Vernour  or  speed- 
ing homewards,  or  confronted  with  grandmamma.   There 


154  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

was  a  fierce  kind  of  excitement  in  this  gradual,  conscious 
approach  to  a  forbidden  moment,  in  the  tiptoe  venture 
to  the  very  edge,  in  the  peep  too  long,  the  slip,  the  slide 
downwards  to  the  fiery  flood,  the  momentary  drowning ; 
and  then  there  was  the  relief  of  recovery,  and  the  sense 
of  danger  past.  She  lived  it  over  and  over  again ;  time 
existed  no  longer.  She  conned  her  legend  until  she  had 
it  by  heart,  until  she  knew  the  perilous  passages  of  it, 
and  could  judge  whether  she  was  capable  of  reviewing 
them,  or  must  not.  ...  If  she  indulged  herself,  if  she 
nursed  her  wound,  it's  no  wonder.  What  else  was  she  to 
do?  Her  heart  was,  as  it  were,  in  her  arms,  against  her 
bosom.  She  fondled  it.  This  must  be  confessed.  .  .  . 
It  was  all  very  secret,  very  sweet,  very  foolish  and,  be- 
like, very  wrong,  .  .  .  but  if  outraged  grandmammas 
lock  up  fair  impertinents  as  a  punishment  for  temerity, 
this  is  the  sort  of  penance  the  prisoners  will  perform. 

I  don't  see  why  I  should  make  any  mystery  about  a 
very  simple  matter.  David  Vernour,  seen  by  Miss 
Chambre  for  a  second  of  time  on  that  day  in  January 
when  she  first  came  to  the  home  of  her  raco,  had  by  this 
end  of  April  assumed  the  proportions  of  a  hero.  It  may 
be  granted  that  he  had  himself  done  nothing  towards  it, 
if  it  is  granted  in  return  that  he  had  done  nothing 
against  it.  But  to  grant  me  that  return  is  to  grant  me  the 
M'hole  position.  It  does  so  happen  that  in  the  few  moments 
when  he  was  face  to  face  with  the  visionary  he  had 
carried  himself  with  simplicity  and  dignity.     If  he  was 


WE  STAND  AT  THE  WINDOW  155 

no  hero,  he  had  not  been  unheroic.  Indeed,  it  is  difficult 
to  see  what  better  a  hero  himself  could  have  done.  Every- 
thing else  had  been  the  young  lady's  work.  She  had 
spun  the  mist  through  which  he  loomed  like  the  Brocken- 
shadow,  enormous  and  god-like;  she  had  lent  the  fire 
which  ruddied  the  dream ;  by  every  effort  of  hers  he 
had  gained;  and  every  new  wrong  done  him  by  the 
Carylls  had  seemed  a  new  virtue  in  the  victim  of  their 
spleen.  And  not  only  he,  but  his  family,  partook  this 
glamour.  The  Brook  Street  establishment  became  a 
sanctuary,  the  Brook  Street  denizens  patriarchs.  It  had 
never — even  in  the  first  moment  of  reality — entered  her 
head  to  say,  "These  people  are  not  as  I  am."  She  was 
too  much  her  father's  cliild,  and  too  much  the  child  of  her 
enthusiastic  generation  for  that  to  be  possible.  Nothing 
had  offended  her,  nothing  jarred.  The  men  in  frocks 
and  aprons,  the  woman  with  hands  pink  and  soft  from 
the  wash-tub — she  had  noticed  nothing  amiss.  She  had 
been  full  of  her  errand,  swept  along  by  it ;  and  now  that 
it  was  all  over,  and  she  was  so  triumphantly  right,  so 
sure  that  she  had  done  well — now  there  was  no  question 
of  reality  at  all.  David  Vernour  shone  through  his  blue 
frock  like  Apollo  through  his  shepherd-skins — what  time 
he  was  keeping  herds  for  Admetus,  serving  his  term  in 
proud  humility  with  that  Thessalian  king. 

Her  seclusion  was  rigid,  and  might  have  been  irksome. 
No  one  was  admitted  to  her  but  Moth ;  and  what  Moth 
may  have  surmised  she  was  too  discreet  to  exhibit.     But 


156  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

for  the  first  day  or  two  this  black-eyed,  demure  young 
woman  was  entirely  at  a  loss  to  know  who  "he"  might  be. 
It  was,  of  course,  obvious  that  the  situation  involved  a 
man.  If  families  and  persons  filled  Lady  Morfa's  world, 
Moth's  contained  two  classes  also — expectant  woman  and 
advancing  man.  Was  it  Lord  Rodono?  Was  it  Mr. 
Touchctt?  She  could  put  two  and  two  together,  and 
had  heard  of  that  gentleman's  performance  at  the  din- 
ner-table ;  it  had  gone  to  swell  the  great  horse-question 
which  had  been  canvassed  in  the  housekeeper's  room  with 
far  more  freedom  than  elsewhere.  Parties  were  equally 
divided  down  there ;  the  Jacob  Jacobs  of  the  gold-laced 
hat  and  black  stockings  was  not  quite  the  same  man  one 
might  have  seen  in  slippered  ease  with  Mrs.  James,  with 
Mr.  Progers,  and  my  lord's  own  man.  Mrs.  James,  the 
housekeeper,  was  strongly  on  the  Family  side ;  so  was 
her  ladyship's  woman,  Mrs.  Elkington.  Moth,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  for  Vernour,  whose  charms  of  person 
demanded  sympathy,  and  she  hailed  his  return  to  the 
tradesman's  door  with  tender  interest.  Jacob  Jacobs 
did  not  disguise  that  he  respected  the  young  butcher, 
and  that  he  cared  not  who  knew  it.  It  is  true  that  he 
had  been  scandalised  by  that  shocking  encounter ;  but  it 
is  also  true  that  he  had  been  impressed  by  it.  For 
although  to  lay  hands  upon  a  peer  is  a  sacrilegious  act, 
yet  to  have  done  so,  and  not  to  have  been  blasted,  entitles 
you  to  the  esteem  of  your  fellow-men.  Vernour  still  lived, 
and  again  plied  his  trade  at  Caryll  House.     This  was  in 


WE  STAND  AT  THE  WINDOW  157 

itself  a  career.  So  a  truly  religious  man  might  feel 
towards  one  who  had  successfully  robbed  a  church.  But 
neither  Jacobs  nor  Moth  had  an  inkling  of  the  present 
state  of  the  case.  Moth  had,  in  fact,  finally  decided  for 
Touchett. 

Meantime,  on  the  third  day  of  her  imprisonment,  Miss 
Chambre  discovered  that  half-past  ten  in  the  morning 
was  the  hour  of  David  Vernour's  appearance  before  the 
gates  of  Caryll  House ;  and  on  the  fourth  that  he  was 
aware  of  her.  This  was  an  act  of  divination  on  her  part, 
for  on  his  he  never  once  let  her  know  it.  It  was  as  he 
was  tethering  his  horse,  or  talking  with  Jacobs  at  the 
gates,  that  he  looked  towards  the  window  where  she  sat ; 
once  inside  the  court,  although  he  had  to  cross  immedi- 
ately under  it,  he  kept  his  eyes  to  the  ground ;  nor  did 
he  look  at  her  again  until  he  was  once  more  at  the  horse's 
head.  She  was  very  much  puzzled  to  know  how  he  had 
learned  of  her  confinement,  but  assumed  that  he  had 
guessed  it.  She  saw  him  every  day  so  long  as  she  re- 
mained a  prisoner,  and  nothing  could  have  kept  her  from 
the  window.  When  she  was  released  at  the  end  of  the 
week,  and  free  of  the  house  and  grounds,  on  the  contrary, 
nothing  in  the  world  would  have  brought  her  to  the  gates 
at  half -past  ten  in  the  morning. 

But  here,  in  the  middle  of  London,  were  all  the  condi- 
tions of  an  Italian  novel:  a  window  and  a  secluded  lady, 
a  confidential  maid,  a  young  man  whose  business  led  him 
daily  by  the  house.    The  action  should  have  flowed  natu- 


158  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

rally ;  the  ladj  should  lean  over  the  balcony  and  one  day 
drop  a  flower;  the  maid  should  hear  her  complaint,  and 
one  day  confide  it  to  the  lover  below ;  notes  should  pass, 
and  all  the  rest  be  in  a  concatenation.  Nothing  of  the 
kind  here.  The  romance  endured  with  the  imprisonment 
and  ceased  the  moment  it  became  easier  of  fruition ;  and 
as  for  the  notes,  they  came  and  went  by  the  post. 

He  wrote  to  her,  but  after  her  release,  "I  beg  Miss 
Chambre  to  believe  that  no  word  from  me  has  occasioned 
the  paragraph  in  the  newspaper.  I  beg  her  to  do  me 
this  act  of  justice,  and  to  believe  me  with  the  greatest 
respect  her  obliged  servant,  D.  Vernour." 

She  did  not  hesitate  to  reply:  "Dear  Sir:  I  have 
seen  no  paragraphs,  but  had  I  seen  them,  should  never 
have  supposed  them  yours.  In  any  case,  I  should  have 
been  very  indifferent  to  them.  I  remain,  dear  sir,  yours, 
much  obliged,  Hermia  Mary  Chambre." 

She  was  released,  as  I  say,  after  a  week,  and  left  her 
rooms  to  all  appearances  her  natural  self.  How  far  that 
was  true  I  don't,  at  this  stage  of  her  history,  take  it  upon 
me  to  say.  Her  visions  ceased  with  the  opportunity  of 
dreaming,  and  she  sought  no  more  material — indeed,  she 
was  careful  to  avoid  it.  She  never  left  the  house  or  re- 
turned to  it  between  half-past  ten  and  a  quarter  to 
eleven;  and  she  did  not  pay  another  call  upon  Mrs. 
Vernour.  So  much  Harriet  Moon  ascertained — who,  for 
her  part,  had  no  scruples  about  her  hours  for  going  out 
and  coming  in. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IN  WHICH   SIR   GEORGE   COIGXE   HEARS   THE   CALL  OF 
FAMILY 

"^  \  THEN  Lady  Morf  a,  under  stress  of  the  thought  that 
'  ^  she  was  keeping  in  ward  a  person  for  which  two 
eldest  sons  of  earls  had  asked  within  a  few  days  of  each 
other,  released  her  granddaughter,  she  knew  that  she  was 
committed  to  her  last  expedient.  Unless  you  are  a  Catho- 
lic— with  walled  convents  in  the  background — there  is 
really  no  middle  course.  If  you  cannot  keep  a  handsome 
young  lady  at  home,  and  dare  not  let  her  abroad,  you 
must  marry  and  be  done  with  her.  She  is  not  a  specimen 
for  a  museum,  after  all.  Miss  Chambre,  at  any  rate,  did 
not  appear  to  consider  herself  so;  but,  being  enlarged, 
came  forth  no  whit  abashed,  said  her  "Good-morning, 
grandmamma,"  very  happily,  and  stooped  a  fresh,  if 
somewhat  pale,  cheek  to  be  kissed.  Without  any  desire 
to  blink  regrettable  facts,  she  complained  of  want  of 
exercise,  and  demanded  a  horse  and  squire.  The  mar- 
riage-treaty must  be  faced. 

But  the  marriage  of  a  Caryll  by  the  mother's  side  is  no 
light  matter — no  common  affair  of  instinct  and  heart- 
ache. There  are  high  contracting  parties  to  such  a 
marriage,  and  settlements  and  minute  precautions  for  the 


160  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

proper  maintenance  of  offspring.  That  which  you  would 
blush  to  remember  in  the  case  of  Jack  and  Jill,  here  you 
would  blush  to  forget.  In  a  certain  sense  it  is  almost 
vulgar  that  such  an  alliance  should  be  opened  by  a 
gentleman  with  a  heart-complaint ;  it  is  surely  better  that 
the  authorities  should  sound  each  other,  the  land-agents 
having  been  consulted,  and  the  powers  verified.  Cer- 
tainly, Lords  Sandgate  and  Rodono  had  not  advanced 
their  suits  by  the  methods  adopted ;  in  any  case,  they 
were  ineligible.  The  Codnor  properties  were  in  the  west, 
the  Drem  estate  was  miserably  cut  into  by  jointures,  and 
was  Scotch  at  the  best.  There  remained  Lord  Edlogan 
to  consider,  son  of  the  Duke  of  Wentsland  and  Bryng- 
win — desirable  in  every  way — but  she  held  him  over  for 
the  present,  and,  like  a  king  in  a  crisis,  sent  for  Sir 
George  Coigne. 

This  young  baronet  of  Bucks,  summoned  by  his  aunt 
to  form  an  administration,  arrived  punctually  to  the 
minute,  driving  his  four  bays  from  Plashetts  as  became 
so  famous  a  whip.  "From  Uxbridge  under  the  hour, 
ma'am,  upon  my  soul;  two  hours  and  fifty-five  minutes 
from  Wendover  Cross— and  going  like  clockwork ! "  He 
was  a  prosperous  young  man,  uniformly  cheerful;  he 
was  sandy,  red-faced,  wholesome,  and  slim,  very  neat  in 
the  leg.  In  addition  to  his  coachmanship,  which  was  his 
great  art,  he  was  a  certain  shot  at  a  woodcock,  a  keen 
farmer,  not  above  racing ;  he  had  been  seen  at  more  than 
one  mill,  backing  his  fancy  man,  and  could  put  out  a 


SIR  GEORGE  IS  SENT  FOR  161 

main  of  cocks  for  a  battle  at  two  days'  notice.  These  were 
his  occupations,  pursued  with  the  kind  of  zest  most  men 
have  for  their  diversions.  In  addition,  he  owned  a  bor- 
ough, always  at  the  service  of  the  Opposition,  and  a 
comfortable  fifteen  thousand  a  year,  all  in  land.  Although 
he  was  turned  thirty,  he  had  never  considered  marriage, 
for  (as  he  explained)  with  horses  and  hounds  a  man's 
hands  are  pretty  full.  He  bred  both,  and  had  taken 
prizes.  But  Lady  Morfa  was  fully  sure  of  him.  His 
mother  had  never  allowed  him  to  forget  that  she  had  been 
a  Botetort.  The  Coignes,  of  course,  were  respectable, 
but  no  more:  an  old  county  family.  The  baronetcy 
dated  from  George  II. 

Her  ladyship  came  to  the  point  with  more  than  her 
accustomed  precision — with  more,  because  she  was  deal- 
ing with  a  kinsman,  to  whom  a  preface  would  have  been 
impertinent.  Her  very  first  words  were  really  a  com- 
pliment to  Family.  "Now,  George,"  she  said,  "I've 
found  a  match  for  you ;  and  you  must  be  extremely 
sensible  and  listen  to  me." 

"Always  do  that,  aunt — do  me  the  justice,"  says  Sir 
George,  looking  at  his  Hessians.  Had  he  been  a  com- 
mon person,  you  would  have  sworn  that  he  had  whistled 
as  he  heard  the  first  words. 

"It's  Hermia  Chambre,"  said  Lady  Morfa;  "good 
blood  on  both  sides,  as  I  am  bound  to  own.  I  never  ap- 
proved of  Dick  Chambre,  perhaps  I  need  not  say — but, 
after  all,  he  might  have  been  worse.     If,  for  instance,  he 


162  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

had  not  run  away  with  poor  Hermione,  I  doubt  if  any- 
body else  would.  And  he  would  certainly  have  had  all 
Ireland  by  the  ears  if  he  could  have  kept  quiet.  But  he 
set  up  for  a  wit,  poor  man — must  talk.  Heavens  !  I  can 
hear  him  now  with  his,  'Mark  me,  madam,  a  man  is  not 
a  dumb  beast.'  He  did  his  best  to  prove  that.  He  was 
green  wood — all  smoke  and  splutter;  but  I  have  never 
denied  his  birth.  That  he  had,  though  I  dare  say  he  was 
heartily  ashamed  of  it.  As  to  Hermia,  you  know  she  has 
nothing  of  her  own — five  hundred  a  year,  or  something 
of  the  kind — but  I  shall  see  to  that.  She's  been  with  me 
now  since  Christmas,  and  I  certainly  like  her,  I  must  say. 
She's  a  beauty,  I  suppose — too  full  for  perfection,  per- 
haps— too  mature ;  but  the  fault's  on  the  right  side, 
and " 

"Quite  so,  quite  so,"  Sir  George  murmured  to  his  boots, 
and  wondered  what  might  come  next. 

"She  made  a  great  effect  when  I  brought  her  out — 
very  gratifjdng.     There  was   a   time  when   I  thought 

that    the    Pr ;    but,    however — nothing    came    of 

that." 

"Good  Lord!  no,"  said  the  vexed  Sir  George.  "Too 
bad." 

"She's  full  of  spirit,"  her  ladyship  calmly  pursued, 
"can  answer  you  like  a  wit  at  a  dinner-table.  I  know 
she  has  courage,  though  I  think  she  is  obstinate  and 
perverse.  But  that  is  because  she  has  been  brought  up 
anyhow.    A  year's  training  will  work  wonders — and,  of 


SIR  GEORGE  IS  SENT  FOR  163 

course,  there's  no  hurry.  What  is  she?  Twenty,  I  sup- 
pose— barely  that." 

"Ought  to  take  'em  early,  aunt,  eh.'"'  said  Sir  George, 
his  mind's  eye  now  roaming  over  his  walled  paddocks, 
where  slim  chestnuts  grazed  at  ease. 

"Well,  now,  George,  I  must  tell  you  that  she's  been 
greatly  admired.  The  Duke  of  Sussex  said  to  me — well, 
you  know  the  kind  of  thing  those  creatures  say.  Their 
compliments,  my  dear !  They  talk  like  salesmen !  But 
I've  had  two  proposals  for  her — one  excellent  in  many 
ways,  and  I've  reason  to  know  that  the  Duke's  son  has 
had  a  thought  of  her.  If  it  were  not  for  a  most  un- 
fortunate occurrence  in  which  she  chose  to  embroil  her- 
self— but  the  other,  I'll  tell  you  in  confidence,  was  Lord 
Sandgate.  Lord  Sandgate,  the  friend  of — that  man ! 
My  dear  George  Coigne,  I  don't  wish  to  flatter  you — but 
between  you  and  Lord  Sandgate  what  choice  have  I.'"' 

She  paused,  and  her  nephew  had  to  take  up  the  tale. 
Alarmed  as  he  had  been,  disturbed,  and,  as  he  expressed 
it,  "put  about,"  he  was  by  no  means  at  the  end  of  his 
tether  yet.  Talk  of  this  sort  amused  women,  and  women 
amused  him,  so  long  as  they  didn't  get  too  close.  His 
aunt  was  got  as  close  as  he  cared  about,  but  he  thought 
that  careless  interest,  so  to  speak,  might  serve  his  turn 
best.  Could  he  not  hint  the  dawning  of  an  idea?  Yes, 
yes,  but  how  the  deuce  do  you  do  that  kind  of  thing? 
The  old  lady  was  serious,  and  might  take  him  up  short 
if  he  was  not  careful — and  talking  was  such  infernal 


164  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

nonsense.  One  of  the  few  trials  of  his  life  was  the  having 
to  say  what  he  wanted,  instead  of  to  get  it.  It  is  prob- 
able that  his  natural  manner,  which  was  unemotional, 
jerky,  and  genial  at  once,  helped  him  in  this  uncomfort- 
able pass,  for  it  did  combine,  rather  happily,  brusquerie 
and  compliment.  It  should  certainly  be  a  great  com- 
pliment to  your  partner  in  a  conversation  that  you  take 
compliments  as  a  matter  of  course. 

He  thumbed  his  waistcoat,  stretched  his  fine  legs  to  the 
full,  cleared  his  throat,  and  settled  into  his  stock.  "My 
dear  aunt,  I  take  this  very  kindly  in  you — upon  my  life, 
very  kindly  indeed.  I  don't  know  what  I  can  say,  except 
that,  of  course,  I'd  never  thought  of  Hermy  Chambre — 
in  that  sort  of  way,  you  know.  Nice  gal — fine  gal — well 
set  up — rides  uncommonly  straight,  eh.'"' 

This  did  not  take  him  far. 

"I'm  told  she  rides  excellently,"  said  her  ladyship,  and 
left  it  there  for  him. 

"Hardly  know  her,  you  know — eh?"  Sir  George  con- 
tinued, hammering  upon  his  manner.  "Full  of  breed 
and  all  that — full  of  go  and  pace — fine  action  and  all 
that,  eh?  Family  first  rate,  of  course — very  young, 
though — what  ?" 

"Virgin  soil,"  said  Lady  Morfa ;  "virgin  soil." 

Sir  George  jumped  as  though  he  had  been  shot,  and 
immediately  perceived  that  that  made  it  worse.  Really, 
his  aunt  was — eh?  But  he  hastened  now  to  agree.  "Not 
a  doubt  of  it — oh,  of  course,  of  course !    My  dear  aunt ! 


SIR  GEORGE  IS  SENT  FOR  165 

Very  charming  and  all  that."  Exquisitely  uncomfort- 
able, he  felt  that  no  praise  from  him  could  be  too  strong 
for  a  lady  whom  his  aunt  could  so  exhibit.  "Yes,  upon 
my  soul,  I  always  liked  the  gal — little  Miss  Hermy — 
eh  ?"  This  was  further  than  he  had  meant  to  go,  but  his 
aunt  had  shocked  him.     Virgin  soil — oh,  damn  it! 

"Very  well,"  said  the  lady,  "then  I  suppose  that  we 
know  where  we  are." 

"Eh.'*"  said  he.  "Oh,  well,  aunt,  we  won't  drive  her, 
you  know.  Never  do  with  a  youngster.  She'd  shy  off 
to  a  certainty.  No,  we  must  go  slower  than  that.  I'll 
turn  it  over — turn  it  over  in  my  mind,  3^ou  know. 
We've  time  enough,  as  I  think  you  said — we  must  go 
slow." 

"It  was  you  who  said  so,"  observed  her  ladyship, 
"not  I." 

"Oh,  well,  after  all,  you  know — there  is  plenty  of 
time."  His  discomfort  turned  him  at  bay.  "I  must 
really — you'll  forgive  me,  aunt — I  must  really  do  some 
serious  thinking  here,  and  consideration,  eh.-^  Put  on  my 
considering  cap,  and  all  that,  you  know."  He  paused 
blankly,  and  felt  constrained  to  qualify  what  had  sounded 
to  him  horribl}"  crude.  "But  she's  a  fine  gal — stout, 
trim  gal — rare  colour  and  all  that."  She  might  have 
been  a  wine.     "So  now  I  think — "     He  rose, 

"Think  of  it,  George ;  that's  all  I  ask,"  said  Lady 
Morfa,  not  truthfully,  and  gave  him  her  hand,  which  he 
kissed  before  he  left  the  presence.    At  the  door  he  sighed 


166         ^         THE  STOOPING  LADY 

his  immense  relief.    "God  Almighty,  I  thought  she'd  got 


me 


I" 


In  the  corridor,  down  which  he  stroke  briskly,  manliood 
returning  at  every  step,  he  came  suddenly  upon  Harriet 
Moon,  who,  with  bent  head,  seemed  to  be  hurrying  about 
her  business.  We  now  find  a  very  different  Sir  George 
Coigne — one  of  quickened  colour  and  assured  gallantry. 

"God  bless  me,  it's  Miss  Moon ! "  She  looked  up  like  a 
startled  roe,  but  almost  immediately  showed  him  her  long 
lashes. 

"Oh,  Sir  George,  I — "  Her  hand,  which  was  a  very 
small  one,  felt  hke  a  caught  mouse  in  his. 

"Upon  my  life,  Miss  Harriet,  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you 
again.     I  do  hope  you're  very  well." 

"Yes,  thank  you,  Sir  George." 

"One  never  sees  you  here  nowadays.  You've  been 
missed,  I  can  tell  you." 

"I  was  just  going  to  her  ladyship.  Sir  George, 
when " 

"Yes,  I  know — I'm  in  luck's  way.  Let's  see,  how  long 
is  it  since  you  were  at  Plashetts  ?^^ 

"Nearly  six  months,"  said  Harriet  quickly  and  accu- 
rately. 

"By  Gad,  is  it  so  long.?"  She  had  regained  her  hand. 
"I  say,  Miss  Harriet,  do  you  remember  the  skewbald.'' 
And  how  frightened  you  were?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  Sir  George." 

"I  shall  never  forget  that  myself  so  long  as  I  hve  in 


SIR  GEORGE  IS  SENT  FOR  167 

this  wicked  world,"  said  the  baronet,  "You  took  my 
arm,  you  know.     But  j'ou've  forgiven  me,  haven't  you?" 

"Oh,  surely.  Sir  George." 

"You  know  I  wouldn't  do  you  any — 3'ou  know  that  I 
think  very  much  of  j^our — good  looks,  eh?"  This  was  a 
new  Sir  George,  unknown  to  his  aunt.  Miss  Moon  had 
nothing  to  say,  and  her  cast-down  eyes  moved  him 
strongl}'.     He  was  bound  to  see  them. 

"Miss  Harriet — oh,  Harriet — "  She  looked  up,  plead- 
ingl}',  beautifully,  tearfully,  and  in  another  moment  her 
hands  were  caug-ht — and  what  might  have  occurred 
thereupon  if  Hemiia  had  not  then  entered  the  corridor — 
Hermia,  fresh  from  her  ride — one  does  not  know.  That 
is  what  happened;  Harriet  flew.  "Oh,  how  d'ye  do, 
Henny?"  said  Sir  George  to  his  proffered  bride. 

"Quite  well,  thank  you,  George,"  said  she.  "What 
have  you  been  doing  to  poor  Harriet?" 

Poor  Harriet !  The  contrast  between  his  own  state  and 
that  of  the  divinely  dowered  Harriet  tempted  him  to 
chuckle.  "I  was  just  telling  Miss  Moon,  you  know,  she 
must  really  bring  you  down  to  Plashetts.  This  weather — 
we're  at  our  best — with  the  grass  beginning  to  grow — 
and  all  that.  And  flowers  !  Do  3-ou  like  flowers  ?  We've 
any  quantity  of  flowers.  I  do  think  you'd  be  pleased 
with  us  ;  I  do  indeed.  You  go  and  stay  with  old  Drem — 
I  know  you  do,  because  Lady  Grizel  told  me — and  it's 
not  fair,  you  know.  Now,  really,  when  will  you  come 
down  ?" 


168  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"You  must  ask  grandmamma,"  says  she.  "She  has  me 
body  and  souh" 

"Oh,  no,  by  George !"  He  was  knowing.  "Not  she ! 
Don't  tell  me  that.  You  have  a  way  of  your  own,  I  be- 
lieve.    And  Tom  Rodono  says  so." 

"You  collect  your  information  from  that  family.''  I 
don't  think  he  knows  much  about  me." 

Sir  George  mused.  Tom  was  the  man !  That  might  be 
captained  by  an  artful  one.  "Good  fellow,  Tom,"  he 
said,  "but  he's  idle,  you  know;  wants  looking  after. 
But,  mind  you,  he's  a  man  you  may  depend  upon — so 
long  as  he  don't  get  angry.     Never  let  him  get  angry." 

"Really!"  said  Miss  Chambre.  "What  have  I  to  do 
with  his  passions.'^"  He  was  going  too  fast.  Damn  it, 
he  was  making  a  mess  of  the  thing. 

"Oh,  quite  so,  quite  so.  What  have  you?  No,  no — 
that's  absurd.  But  about  your  visit  to  Plashetts  now. 
I  do  hope  you'll  think  of  that." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  George.     I'll  see." 

"Do — pray  do.  Now  I  must  be  off.  County  meeting 
at  Amersham  this  evening.  Reform,  and  all  that.  I 
promised  I'd  go.  Waysford  asked  me.  Must  keep  up, 
you  know,  eh.^" 

"Yes,  I  hope  you'll  keep  up,"  says  she.  "We  expect  it 
of  you." 

"By  George,  we're  all  Whigs  here,  I  know — but  Re- 
form! I'll  tell  you  this,  Hermy,  between  you  and  me 
and  the  doorpost.    I  don't  much  like  it.    That  little  place 


SIR  GEORGE  IS  SENT  FOR  169 

of  mine,  you  know — Condover — well,  that'd  go,  you 
know.  Three  freeholders  besides  myself — and  one's  my 
bailiff,  and  the  other's  his  son,  and  the  other's  the  wood- 
man. Now,  what  I  say  is,  that's  mine,  you  know — my 
grandfather  bought  it — paid  for  it.  But  there  you 
are — I  said  I'd  go,  and  I  will  go.  And  you're  quite  right 
about  keeping  up — that's  sport,  that  is.  Well,  by-by, 
Hermy."  They  touched  hands.  He  added,  "I  say, 
though,  I  do  think  I'd  bring  Miss  Moon  with  you — to 
Plashctts,  I  mean.     My  mother  likes  her." 

She  laughed.  "Oh,  of  course,  I  understand  that  I 
should  be  valueless  without " 

"Not  at  all !  Only  too  charmed  to  have  you  anyhow — 
what.'^  Lucky  to  get  you,  I  know.  But  Miss  Moon — 
she's  useful,  you  know — been  there  before,  knows  the 
ways,  and  all  that.  I  do  think  I'd  bring  her,  if  I  were 
you." 

"I  shall  certainly  bring  her,"  said  Hermia.  "Good- 
bye, Cousin  George." 

When  she  found  her  friend,  she  said  nothing  of  Sir 
George  or  his  proposals,  but  talked  of  indifferent 
things — and  then,  suddenly,  she  looked  at  Harriet,  who 
was  very  aware  of  it,  and  put  her  arm  round  her  waist, 
and  kissed  her.  Harriet,  after  a  proper  moment  of  sur- 
prise, embraced  her  with  both  arms,  and  kissed  her  back. 
Nothing  was  said  by  them — and  nothing  need  have  been 
said  by  me,  but  that  I  think  the  little  incident  marks  a 
step  in  Miss  Chambre's  sentimental  education. 


170  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"Moon  I  believe  to  be  sly,"  her  ladyship  had  said  upon 
one  occasion,  and  was  no  doubt  right.  But  the  question 
is.  How  is  a  little  thin  daughter  of  nobody  to  keep  her 
soul  her  own  unless  she  use  the  only  weapon  she  has — a 
pair  of  melting  brown  eyes  and  a  fine  curtain  of  lashes 
over  them?  These,  and  a  pretty,  deferential  way,  were, 
so  far  as  I  can  see,  all  her  simple  armoury.  To  be  sure, 
there  was  religion ;  but  it  had  not  come  to  that  yet. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WHICH  EXPOUNDS  A  KEW  USE  FOR  ONE's  MISTRESS 

'\/f[  Y  Lord  Viscount  Sandgate  was  an  enthusiast  of  that 
■^  -*■  dangerous  sort  which  can  turn  all  things  human 
and  divine  to  his  single  purpose,  to  which  nothing  is  too 
sacred  for  use,  or  fails  to  get,  as  it  gives,  colour  and 
radiance  by  use.  If  he  was  a  lover,  his  love  must  be  so 
much  capital  for  his  ventures ;  if  he  was  an  adventurer, 
his  ventures  must  be  sanctified  by  his  love.  He  would 
have  said.  My  mistress  is  my  pole-star,  and  I  walk  in 
her  beam.  Yes,  but  I  travel  to  the  pole.  The  pole  of 
his  endeavour  was  assuredly  Revolution,  the  lantern  for 
his  feet  of  French  make.  Into  this  lantern,  as  a  guide 
for  this  end,  he  proposed  to  place  the  enkindled  heart  of 
the  fair  Chambre. 

He  was  not  one  of  those  politicians  who  can  plod ;  he 
was  vehement  and  importunate  of  Fortune.  Reform, 
which  had  promised  so  fair  in  the  days  of  'O-i,  now 
seemed  to  him  mere  patchwork,  scarcely  worth  his  while. 
At  best  it  was  but  a  handle  to  the  axe  he  longed  to  wield ; 
and  as  time  went  on,  and  ministers  sat  immovable  in 
their  places,  and  the  Opposition  rootedly  asleep  in  its 
constitutional  fortress,  my  Lord  Sandgate  began  to 
pant   for  the  open,   and  to   snatch  at   any   handles  he 


172  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

could  find.  It  must  be  admitted  that  he  was  not  squeam- 
ish. If  Colonel  Wardle  and  the  Cyprian  of  Gloucester 
Place  gave  him  no  qualms,  who  or  what  could?  He 
had  used  these  not  too  cleanly  levers  so  long  as  they 
would  serve ;  and  after  them  ]Mr.  Reding,  the  broker 
of  seats.  With  the  purchased  lady  he  had  belaboured 
the  honour  of  a  royal  duke,  with  the  gentleman  bruised 
Lord  Castlereagh's  heel — and  so  far,  good.  Now,  as 
it  seemed  to  him,  he  had  the  opportunity  of  striking 
deeper.  Corruption,  when  all  was  said,  was  but  a 
surface  sore ;  Privilege  was  a  cancer.  You  must  excise 
that  with  a  knife.  Now,  suppose  that  he  could  inspire 
his  friends  with  some  of  the  enthusiasm  which  he  had 
felt  for  Miss  Chambre's  gallant  deed — suppose,  even, 
that  he  could  egg  on  that  brilliant  young  leveller  to 
greater  havoc — had  he  not  a  knife  wherewith  to  slice 
Privilege.''    He  certainly  thought  so. 

Remember,  he  was  in  love  with  this  lady.  She  Imaged 
for  him  the  live  flame  of  chivalry,  that  altar-fire  which 
he  could  not  believe  extinguished  altogether,  and  without 
which  he  could  not  hope  for  any  ordered  universe.  If 
he  chiefly  admired  her  wit  and  franchise,  her  high  spirits, 
he  was  not  at  all  insensible  to  her  beauty,  and  was  clear 
as  to  the  extraordinary  value  of  her  noble  birth.  He 
promised  himself  the  raptures  of  possession  as  heartily 
as  Tom  Rodono  or  any  ordinary  man  could  ever  have 
done,  but  flattered  himself  with  the  vision  of  a  rarer 
joy — when  they  two  with  level  breasts  should  lead  the 


A  NEW  USE  FOR  ONE'S  MISTRESS     173 

forces  of  Liberty  into  battle,  and  sit,  still  side  by  side, 
enthroned  upon  the  wreck  of  kings.  The  picture  is  con- 
fused— for  what  have  thrones  to  do  with  Liberty,  unless 
everybody  is  to  have  a  throne?  But  it  pleased  him  when 
he  made  it ;  it  gave  zest  to  his  efforts  when  he  set  about  his 
design  of  a  meeting  between  his  Phrygian  goddess,  as  he 
strangely  called  her,  and  his  ally,  the  stout  Mr.  Cobbett. 

Nothing  could  have  needed  contrivance  more  nice,  but 
he  pursued  the  plan  with  such  ardour  that  he  was  able  to 
manage  it  towards  the  middle  of  June.  While  Lord 
Castlereagh  was  nursing  his  honour  and  Mr.  Canning 
his  thirst  for  blood ;  while  the  troops  in  Walcheren  were 
rotting  of  dysentery  and  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley  was  push- 
ing on  towards  the  massacre  at  Talavera ;  while  the 
Prince  was  getting  rid  of  Mrs.  Fitzherbert  and  Mr. 
Croker  advising  Lord  Hertford  in  a  very  delicate  affair, 
the  hospitable  Lady  Burdett  invited  Miss  Chambre  to 
dine,  go  to  the  play,  and  spend  the  night  at  her  house  in 
Piccadilly.  No  opposition  was  raised  by  the  authorities, 
nor  any  expectation  in  Hermia's  breast.  It  seemed  a 
very  ordinary  kind  of  festivity. 

She  thought  the  dinner-party  decorous  and  a  little  dull. 
Lord  Sandgate  was  present,  no  doubt,  and  she  admired 
him  as  a  spectacle  and  as  a  force.  He  was  a  tall,  slim, 
aquiline  man  in  those  days,  inclining  to  middle  age,  hope- 
lessly an  aristocrat.  What  interested  her  about  him  was 
to  see  how  he  could  turn  not  only  his  judgment  and  wit, 
but  his  fine  manner  and  a  hundred  prejudices  also,  to  the 


174.  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

service  of  his  convictions.  He  was  credited  with  fire, 
and  she  knew  that  he  could  act  with  energy — as  when  he 
had  pulled  her  back  by  the  gown  at  a  dangerous  moment 
for  her;  but  where  did  he  hide  his  fire?  Outwardly,  he 
was  grave  and  silent ;  must  he  not  lack  warmth,  passion, 
ardour?  Our  young  lady,  who  lacked  certainly  none  of 
these,  and  had,  moreover,  full  measure  of  the  Irish  crit- 
ical sense,  judged  him  rather  a  tragical  object  for  the 
Reformer's  ranks.  He  handed  her  in  to  dinner ;  but 
love  was  no  more  able  than  patriotism  to  break  down  his 
reserve.  He  added  nothing  to  the  success  of  the  party. 
Lord  Rodono  and  his  sister  did  better ;  Mrs.  Wing  and 
Mr.  Engayne,  long  lovers,  did  as  little  as  they  could. 
Lady  Burdett,  very  amiable,  but  rather  helpless,  ex- 
hausted her  powers  in  praising  Hermia's  beauty ;  every 
few  minutes  she  fell  into  a  vague  rapture,  called  her 
"lovely  creature,"  and  recovered.  Sir  Francis,  one  of 
the  handsomest  men  of  his  day,  and  one  of  the  most 
popular,  held  himself  in  reserve.  No  politics  were  dis- 
cussed, and  at  seven  o'clock  the  ladies,  with  two  young 
men  in  attendance,  went  to  the  pla}'^,  the  other  gentlemen 
to  the  House  of  Commons. 

On  returning  to  supper  the  scene  was  changed.  The 
long  reception  rooms  were  brilliant;  in  the  end  one  of 
all,  through  open  doors  was  to  be  seen  a  round  table, 
covered  with  silver  and  glass.  It  had  as  a  centre-piece  a 
curious,  tall  gilt  ornament  which  represented  a  throne 
upon  degrees.     Behind  that  stood  a  lamp-post — a  Ian- 


A  NEW  USE  FOR  ONE'S  MISTRESS     175 

teme — with  Its  swinging  lamp  upon  the  fatally  sugges- 
tive arm ;  upon  the  top  of  all  this  imagery  was  perched 
a  red  Phrygian  cap  made  of  silk,  and  made  evidently 
to  be  worn.  What  did  this  "poetry"  mean?  Tom 
Rodono,  who  vowed  he  was  not  in  the  secret,  had  no 
notion.  Miss  Chambre,  interested  as  she  was,  excited 
and  lively,  had  none ;  and  the  man,  for  his  part,  cared 
little  what  she  had  or  had  not,  so  long  as  he  could  look 
at  her.  She  was  looking  beautiful,  there's  no  doubt,  in 
her  white  silk  gown,  with  her  glowing  colour  and  dark 
masses  of  hair.  Her  eyes,  it  ha.''  before  been  observed, 
had  the  property  of  seeming  black  at  night.  They  were 
grey,  in  fact,  but  at  night,  when  she  was  excited,  they 
filled  up  with  black,  and  gleamed  like  jewels.  Sapphires 
have  the  same  virtue. 

Three  guests  were  expected,  and  no  more.  One  of 
them  she  knew  and  was  glad  to  see.  Captain  Ranald,  brisk 
and  spruce,  made  her  his  best  bow,  and  seemed  to  pick 
up  his  intercourse  where  he  had  left  it  three  months  ago. 
He  was  fresh  from  the  sea,  had  left  Brest  Roads  but  a 
fortnight  ago,  landed  at  Southampton  yesterday,  trav- 
elled all  night,  made  a  scene  in  the  House  of  Commons 
that  afternoon,  and  here  he  was.  "What  are  we  all  about 
here.?  Burdett  told  me  nothing  but  that  I  should  have 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  again.  I  have  heard  great 
things  of  you." 

She  blushed  and  smiled.  "And  did  you  know  that  I 
have  heard  of  you,  too.'"' 


176  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"No,  indeed.  You  will  hear  little  good  of  me  in  Lon- 
don, from  what  I  can  gather." 

"But  mine  was  all  good.     It  was  from  Mrs.  Vernour." 

"Ah !  Yes,  indeed.  And  her  praise  is  worth  having. 
What  on  earth  have  we  here?" 

The  butler  had  announced  "Mr.  Hunt,"  and  Lady 
Grizel  had  put  up  her  glasses  to  inspect  the  owner  of  so 
unremarkable  a  name.  A  florid  gentleman,  who  bowed 
too  low  and  too  often,  and  seemed  afflicted  with  excessive 
heat  in  the  region  of  the  temples,  was  now  in  the  room ; 
but  why  he  was  there,  or  on  whose  bidding,  was  not  ap- 
parent. It  was  probably  on  Lord  Sandgate's.  He 
plunged  almost  immediately  into  political  discussion,  and 
spoke  of  a  Reform  meeting  at  Salisbury  as  if  it  had 
been  one  of  the  Six  Days  of  Creation.  Shortly  after- 
wards, the  butler  entered  again  with  a  huge  man  at  his 
heels,  broad-shouldered,  bluff,  and  very  conscious  of  his 
powers.  It  was  hardly  necessary  for  him  to  be  called 
"Mr.  Cobbett" — he  was  his  own  best  herald.  Here,  at 
any  rate,  was  somebody  worth  study — a  leader  of  the 
people  and  a  force  in  the  land.  Miss  Hermia  devoured 
him  with  her  fine  eyes. 

He  was  very  much  at  his  ease,  and  not  ungainly  in  his 
free-spoken  way.  He  kissed  his  hostess's  hand,  clapped 
that  of  Sir  Francis;  had  a  joke  for  Ranald,  a  bow  for 
Rodono,  and  two  or  three  words  in  a  half  whisper  for 
Lord  Sandgate.  Of  Mr.  Hunt  he  took  no  notice  what- 
ever, but  stood,  after  his  first  salutations,  surveying  the 


A  NEW  USE  FOR  ONE'S  MISTRESS     177 

ladles — meditating  upon  them,  as  if  they  had  been 
flowers  in  his  garden-plot,  with  not  unpleasant  satisfac- 
tion. Miss  Hermia  could  not  but  think  that  his  hands 
were  too  deep  in  his  breeches'  pockets,  his  feet  too  far 
apart  and  too  firmly  planted.  Although  it  was  mid- 
summer, he  stood  back  to  the  fire,  a  coat-tail  under  each 
arm;  and  although  it  was  near  midnight,  he  still  wore 
cords  and  boots.  She  was  ashamed  of  herself  for  notic- 
ing such  things,  when  better  things  were  at  hand — for 
instance.  Lord  Sandgate's  respect  for  his  opinion,  and  a 
fine  benevolence  twinkling  in  his  sharp  eyes  and  creasing 
his  wholesome  face.  Presently,  to  her  confusion,  the  man 
started  and  looked  at  his  interlocutor.  "God  bless  mc ! 
You  don't  tell  me  that,  my  lord!"  he  said,  and  crossed 
the  room  to  where  she  stood.  He  waited  for  no  formali- 
ties, but  exclaiming  as  he  came,  "Let  me  see  face  to  face 
the  most  honest  girl  in  England,"  had  her  hand  in  his 
in  a  trice ;  took  and  kept  it  in  his  own  huge  paw.  She 
was  blushing  hotly,  but  that  became  her  very  well.  "My 
dear  young  lady,  you  are  an  honour  to  your  sex.  I've 
three  fine  sons  at  home  who,  but  for  the  grace  of  God, 
might  any  one  of  them  have  been  in  Vernour's  shoes — or 
frock ;  and  I  know  what  your  act  would  have  done  for 
him.  You've  exercised  the  privilege  of  your  sex ;  you've 
made  a  man,  my  dear.  I  declare  that  I  should  like  to 
give  you  the  best  I  have  in  me  to  give,  and  that's  the 
salute  of  an  honest  fellow."  He  looked  at  her  so  benevo- 
lently as  he  said  it,  so  comically,  that  she  laughed. 


178  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"You  will  make  me  very  proud,  sir." 

"Why,  then,"  said  he,  "pride  for  ever!"  and  kissed  her 
fairly.  "And  now,  my  lady,"  he  turned  to  Lady  Burdett, 
"let  me  hand  you  to  your  own  supper-table."  This  he 
prepared  to  do  without  any  more  ceremony ;  but  when 
he  found  that  she  chose  to  go  last,  he  stood  aside  with 
good  humour,  and  kept  her  hand  upon  his  arm  with  an 
insistence  not  to  be  mistaken.  Sir  Francis  led  the  way 
with  Hermia  Mary,  who  now  began  to  perceive  that  she 
was  the  guest  of  the  evening. 

The  party  was  a  noisy  one,  more  boisterous  than  merry. 
Mr.  Cobbett  talked  the  whole  time ;  and  so  did  Mr. 
Hunt.  They  talked  against  each  other.  Bob  Ranald 
was  the  only  perfectly  happy  person  present;  Lord 
Rodono  was  sulky.  He  now  had  a  suspicion  of  what 
was  to  come.  All  this  was,  of  course,  Sandgate's 
doing,  and  be  damned  to  him.  "Look,  I  ask  you,"  he 
said  to  Mrs.  Wing,  "look  at  the  demiurgic  rascal, 
who  has  dragged  us  all  here,  and  wound  us  up,  and 
now  proposes  to  sit  still  while  we  jig  for  his  amuse- 
ment. You  may  say  what  you  please  of  Miss  Hermia's 
performance — and  I,  for  one,  rate  it  highly.  I  was  like 
going  down  on  my  knees  to  her  when  it  was  done ;  but 
that  fellow  over  there  sees  in  it  so  much  capital.  He's 
an  usurious  dog — and  we  shall  be  well  out  of  this  party 
with  our  shirts  on  our  backs.  Hunt !  Regard  Hunt ! 
He's  over-drinking  himself.  What  have  we  done  to  be 
treated  hke  this  by   Jack   Sandgate — and  in  another 


A  NEW  USE  FOR  ONE'S  MISTRESS     179 

man's  house,  if  you  please !  That's  a  particular  beauty 
of  it  all." 

Midway  through  the  meal  there  came  a  lull  in  the 
talk — or  debate,  as  it  was  now  become ;  and  in  that  lull 
a  rather  terrible  divergence  was  caused  by  Mr.  Hunt. 
He  leaned  over  the  table,  with  a  solemn  expression  upon 
his  face.  "Miss  Chambre — Madam — the  honour  of  a 
glass  of  wine  with  you,"  she  heard.  Mr.  Ranald  looked 
at  the  ceiling,  Rodono  at  his  own  folded  arms ;  but  Sir 
Francis  supplied  her  glass,  and  the  thing  was  done.  Mr. 
Hunt  was  for  enlarging  upon  the  theme,  but  happily 
could  not.  The  talk  flowed  over  him  again  and  drowned 
him ;  Ranald  returned  to  his  sea-stories  and  Cobbett  to 
forestry;  Lord  Sandgate  watched  his  puppets  jig,  and 
Sir  Francis  sat  urbane,  smiling  and  quiet — meditating, 
probably,  his  immediate  task. 

In  the  next  lull  this  fine  gentleman,  who  never  failed 
to  do  a  thing  well,  however  little  he  may  have  relished  it, 
rose  and  made  the  company  a  speech.  He  said  that, 
honoured  as  he  was  by  the  presence  of  undoubted  patriots 
at  his  table,  he  must  be  permitted  to  observe  that  all  alike 
were  honoured  by  the  presence  of  one  so  young  and  so 
intrepid,  so  diligent  to  hold  the  narrow  path  of  honour 
as  the  charming  lady  who  came  among  them  to  claim 
her  right  to  alliance  in  the  cause.  He  need  not  relate  the 
circumstances,  which  were  fresh  in  all  their  minds,  under 
which  this  lady  showed  her  mettle.  They  were,  he  must 
confess,  peculiarly  adapted  for  that  display,  being  of  a 


180  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

nature  which  might  well  have  daunted  one  less  nobly 
equipped.  The  forces  of  prestige,  high  rank,  and  influ- 
ence were  not  alone  arrayed  against  her;  nearer  and 
more  invincible  forces  were  brought ,  up  to  aid  them. 
Single-handed  she  faced  the  host,  single-handed  she 
showed  that  no  privilege,  however  chartered,  no  influence, 
howsoever  founded,  could  prevail  against  honour.  He 
would  not  despair  of  England,  of  the  Commonwealth, 
nor  of  that  Reform  to  which  they  were  all  pledged, 
while  such  devotion  existed  in  the  breast  of  a  young, 
highly  born,  and  beautiful  lady.  The  Rights  of  IMan 
were  grounded  on  reason,  religion,  and  justice.  It  was 
due  to  the  piety  of  woman  that  they  had  never  been 
nearer  their  recognition  than  they  were  now  in  this 
year,  1809.  He  asked  his  friends  to  join  with  him  in 
welcoming  Miss  Chambre  to  that  society,  founded  by 
the  glorious  youth  of  Home  Tooke,  cemented  by  the 
pains  of  John  Thehvall,  that  society  of  which  he  was 
proud  to  be  a  member — the  Society  of  the  Friends  of  the 
People. 

Lord  Sandgate  sprang  to  his  feet.  Nobody  had  ever 
seen  him  so  moved.  "Madam,"  he  said  with  warmth,  "I 
salute  in  your  person  Divine  Compassion ! "  and  there 
stopped ;  then  Mr.  Hunt  must  needs  follow  him  with  a 
"God  bless  you.  Miss  Chambre,"  but  Cobbett  pulled  him 
down  by  the  coat-tails.  "Divine  Compassion  is  good, 
my  Lord  Sandgate,"  said  that  worthy, "but  Divine  Right 
is  better — and  here's  the  emblem  of  it."     With  that,  he 


A  NEW  USE  FOR  ONE'S  MISTRESS     181 

picks  the  crimson  cap  off  its  lamp-post  and,  coming  be- 
hind her  chair,  sets  it  upon  Miss  Hermia's  head.  The 
burning  thing  rested  upon  its  dark  nest,  for  all  the  world 
like  the  sun  of  winter  setbing  into  a  bank  of  cloud.  The 
whole  company  rose  and  faced  her ;  her  health  was  given 
with  three  times  three  amid  tumultuous  applause,  in  the 
course  of  which  Mr.  Hunt  broke  three  wine-glasses  ;  and 
after  that,  and  concerning  all  that,  one  at  least  at  the 
table  felt  that  the  less  said  the  better.  He  had  kept  his 
eyes  upon  the  girl,  and  saw  that  she  was  not  far  from 
tears.  It  came  upon  him  on  a  certain  wave  of  disgust 
that  she  might  really  be  gratified  at  this  extraordinary 
and  most  unfortunate  tribute.  And,  as  everybody  con- 
cerned seemed  to  be  forgetting  himself,  so  did  Lord 
Rodono,  probably,  when  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Sir  Francis,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "I  believe 
Miss  Chambre  would  desire  me  to  thank  you  for  the 
compliment  you  have  paid  her."  He  was  here  reassured 
by  a  grateful  glance,  and  went  on.  "She  is  one  of  those, 
in  my  belief,  who  chooses  to  do  her  fine  things  in  her 
own  way  and  to  say  little  about  them.  The  less,  indeed, 
the  better.  I  do  nothing  to  diminish  the  value  of  your 
comphment  when  I  assert  that  her  good  deeds  were  never 
published  by  herself  or  by  the  object  of  them.  And  I 
hope  I  may  add  that  she  will  be  best  served  and  most 
honoured  if  her  fame  goes  no  further  than  these  walls. 
She  is  not  one  whose  charity  should  be  blazed  about 
Piccadilly." 


182  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"But  it  should,  my  lord,"  Cobbett  struck  in,  "and  it 
shall — if  the  sound  of  it  can  reach  Carlton  House." 

Tom  Rodono  looked  very  bleak.  "Then,  Mr.  Cobbett, 
a  wrong  will  be  done — and  in  spite  of  the  lady's 
friends.  Among  the  sticks  with  which  you  beat  your 
dogs,  you  shall  not,  by  our  leave,  include  Miss 
Chambre." 

"She  has  numbered  herself,"  Cobbett  thundered,  "she 
has  numbered  herself.  She  has  whipped  Privilege 
across  the  chops,  and  we  have  dealt  a  cut  for  liberty  this 
night  which  is  worth  a  score  of  divisions,  and  ten  score 
of  county  meetings.  Ah !"  he  cried  to  her,  "ah,  my  noble 
young  lady,  you  little  thought  when  you  achieved  your 
act  of  grace  that  the  rebound  could  carry  it  hissing  over 
England ! "  After  that,  while  Rodono  was  down,  very 
angry  and  biting  his  cheek,  Mr.  Cobbett  held  the  floor. 
He  spoke  of  Vcrnour  well  and  eloquently,  if  one  could 
have  cared  to  hear  about  the  man  just  now;  but  the 
more  he  said,  the  worse  he  made  it.  The  note  was  a  false 
one,  the  emphasis  made  it  shrieking-f alse ;  it  was  like 
a  man  singing  flat  and  holding  the  note.  Even  Sir 
Francis  had  had  enough  of  it,  and  whispered  behind 
Lady  Grizel  to  Sandgate — for  God's  sake  to  pull  him 
down.  But  that  was  easier  said  than  done,  and  Lord 
Sandgate  took  no  notice.  What  he  had  done  he  had 
done — cosa  fatta  capo  ha.  So  Cobbett  harped  away  un- 
hindered :  "That  sturdy  young  fellow — that  fine,  manly, 
English  fellow — a  judge  of  a  horse,  a  very  Centaur,  my 


A  NEW  USE  FOR  ONE'S  MISTRESS     183 

friends — hounded  into  gaol,"  etc.,  etc.  He  might  have 
gone  on  for  ever  but  for  Mr.  Hunt,  of  Wiltshire. 

Mr.  Hunt,  very  red  and  excited,  here  jumped  to  his 
feet  and  claimed  the  auditory.  He  got  it  by  a  sudden 
bang  on  the  table  which  made  Cobbett  start.  "I  de- 
clare," he  said  resonantly,  "I  declare  that  the  honest 
fellow's  wrongs  touch  my  heart.  I  beg  to  propose,  there- 
fore, a  public  subscription  for  a  testimonial  of  respect 
to  David  Vemour,  and  shall  be  pleased  to  put  my  name 
down  for  fifty  guineas." 

The  thing  was  getting  quite  horrible,  but  yet  there  was 
no  moving  Lord  Sandgate.  It  was  neck  or  nothing  with 
him ;  he  would  have  been  the  first  to  say  that  if  you  go 
in  on  the  Radical  side  you  mustn't  wear  thin  shoes.  Sir 
Francis  would  have  stopped  it  if  he  could ;  or  Ranald,  if 
he  had  not  feared  to  make  it  worse.  As  for  Rodono — 
"Damn  3'ou,  Sandgate,  damn  you,  damn  you ! "  he 
groaned  to  himself. 

There  being  no  reply  from  any  of  these  gentlemen,  Mr. 
Hunt's  proposal  fell  flat ;  and  then  Cobbett  crushed  it 
to  powder. 

"Pooh,  Hunt !"  he  said  in  his  magisterial  way,  "you're 
a  month  too  late  for  the  fair.  Sit  down,  my  good  fellow. 
I  have  already  put  a  round  sum  at  his  disposal,  without 
any  fuss,  public  or  private." 

This  was  a  facer,  but  a  worse  one  was  to  come. 

"Did  he  take  it?"  Miss  Chambre  asked  with  seriousness ; 
and  Cobbett,  as  if  he  had  been  stung  by  a  viper,  recoiled. 


184.  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Tears  came  smartly  to  his  eyes,  and  he  sat  down  without 
another  word.  Nor  did  he  speak  once  more  that  night. 
"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  you  are  the  angel  on  the  thresh- 
ing-floor !"  says  Rodono  to  himself. 

The  fact  was  that  she,  with  perfect  sincerity  of  vision, 
had  detected  an  amiable  failing  of  Mr.  Cobbett's.  Pan- 
tisocracy  for  him  was  foolishness.  He  was  sure — he  was 
sure  all  his  life  long — that  any  trouble  of  the  lower  or- 
ders could  be  salved  with  half-a-crown. 

Here  ended  a  painful  episode  in  Miss  Chambre's 
career.  What  she  herself  thought  about  it  it  is  difficult 
to  tell.  She  mentions  it  in  a  letter  to  Mary  Fox.  .  .  . 
"Rather  a  hateful  party,  very  kindly  meant.  They 
make  too  much  fuss — and  it  will  all  be  put  down  to  him 
.  .  .  Mr.  Cobbett.  ...  I  cannot  say  that  he  pleased 
me.  He  made  me  angry.  ...  I  believe  I  answered  him 
sharply  once.  Mary,  the  notion !  He  off^ered  Mr.  V. 
money !  And  I  must  remember  that  our  family  brought 
that  upon  him  with  all  the  rest." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN  WHICH  WE  HEAR  SCANDAL,   AND  CAN  JUDGE  FOR  OUR- 
SELVES 

T3  Y  that  same  middle  of  June  it  is  not  surprising  that 
^^  Miss  Chambre  was  being  talked  about — talked  about, 
looked  at,  observed — but  not  as  yet  shunned.  To  reach 
that  stage  of  notoriety  it  would  be  necessary  that  she 
should  be  sought  elsewhere,  by  the  public,  for  instance, 
or  by  those  who  served  the  public.  But  this  had  not  yet 
happened,  so  that  the  polite  world  did  little  more  than 
stand  tiptoe  at  a  party  to  see  "that  Miss  Chambre,"  or  to 
say  that  there  seemed  nothing  in  her — and  consequently 
nothing  in  "it." 

Few  credited  the  tale,  or,  at  any  rate,  its  more  serious 
involutions.  At  the  worst  it  was  an  eccentricity  due 
to  pedigree:  "Colonel  Chambre,  my  dear!  and  Lady 
Hermione.  .  .  .  Lifted  her  himself  over  the  railings, 
and  took  her  away  pillion."  Or,  at  best,  it  was  politics : 
"Lord  Sandgate  vows  there  was  never  any  one  like  her. 
She  did  it,  he  says,  like  an  Empress-Queen."  The  an- 
swer to  that  was,  "Or  like  the  Duchess  Georgiana,"  and 
even  that  did  her  no  hann.  Politicians  may  go  very  far, 
we  know ;  but,  politics  apart,  it  did  her  position  good ; 
for  if  you  are  driven  to  a  preposterous  parallel  it  shows 
that  you  are  at  your  wits'  end  for  credit. 


186  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

And  then,  as  it  were,  on  the  heels  of  the  visit  to  the 
Vernours,  came  that  absurd  supper  in  Piccadilly,  which 
saved  the  girl's  face.  So  it  was  Politics.  The  whole 
thing  a  Jacobin  ruse  from  the  beginning — "Politics,  my 
dear !     So  I  always  supposed !" 

In  the  clubs,  it's  true,  tongues  went  more  gaily.  "Bet 
you  she's  kissed  in  a  month,"  was  taken ;  the  book  sent 
for,  the  entry  made.  "Colonel  Despard  bets  Lord  Mil- 
ing  ten  to  one  in  sovs.  that  Miss  H.  C.  is — "  etc.  But 
there's  a  reason  for  that.  In  the  clubs  they  read  the 
newspapers — the  Examiner  to  wit,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  Dwarf  and  the  Gadfly  and  Peeping  Tom.  The  mat- 
ter was  too  rich  to  have  been  missed  by  these  scavenger- 
birds,  and  variations  too  fruitful.  The  Lady  and  the 
Butcher  Boy :  that  came  to  be  a  popular  cry,  and  made 
a  score  of  ballads  which  might  have  floated  the  thing  off 
into  legend — so  that  in  after  years  one  would  have  read 
of  INIiss  Chambre  in  company  of  INIolly  Legree  and  the 
Lass  of  Richmond  Hill ;  and  so  they  would,  if  they  had 
been  let  alone  to  deal  with  it.  It  was  the  humourists  who 
could  really  hurt,  and  who  did  their  best,  you  may  be 
sure.  How  they  rang  the  changes !  Broken  hearts 
and  bullocks'  hearts,  sheeps'  heads  and  sheeps'  eyes, 
cleavers  and  cleavings,  again  the  Duchess's  canvass 
with  the  lips:  they  had  heavy  hands  in  1809;  they 
spanked  with  the  flat  palm  where  we  flick  with  the  little 
finger. 

And  prints !    I  have  before  me  a  caricature  where  the 


SCANDAL  187 

episode  is  lumped  in  your  face.  It's  political,  but  it's 
more — it's  anacreontic.  A  fine  young  lady,  bountifully 
enriched  in  form  and  hue,  a  very  Hebe,  in  the  tell-tale 
gown  of  the  period — hiding  little,  suggesting  much — 
stands  with  drooping  head  and  hands  clasped.  She  looks 
like  a  Circassian  in  the  market-place — exposed.  Then, 
before  her,  rampant,  is  a  florid  3'outh,  frocked  and 
aproned  proper.  He  sharpens  his  blade  on  the  steel,  his 
starting  e3^es  are  fixed  upon  her,  towards  the  region 
of  the  heart.  It's  not  a  bad  likeness — makes  him  resemble 
the  Prince  as  a  young  man,  high-coloured,  square- 
shouldered  and  fleshy.  From  his  mouth  issues  a  stream 
of  air  which,  expanding  as  it  ascends,  enfolds  a  legend. 
"Cob-it,  my  hearty,"  we  read,  "it's  prime  meat,  this 
year's  lamb.  Now,  miss,  how  will  you  have  it  cut.'"'  In 
the  background  Mr.  Cobbett,  to  be  guessed  by  his  broad 
back  and  gaiters,  cries,  "Buy,  buy,  buy !"  and  exhibits 
crowned  carcases  to  the  mob ;  while  Captain  Ranald,  un- 
mistakable in  cocked  hat,  hacks  with  his  regulation  sword 
at  a  fine  hog  labelled  "Caryll-cured."  To  put  the  whole 
beyond  a  doubt  is  the  flagrant  title  subscribed,  "The 

Groom  of  the  Ch re,  or  Cleaving  to  the  Cleaver." 

This  had  a  great  vogue,  and  one  can  only  hope  the  fair 
victim  never  heard  of  it.  And  I  don't  know  whether  it 
appeared  before  or  after  IMordaunt's  anecdote  got  about. 
Pink  Mordaunt  he  is  in  all  the  Memoirs.  They  must 
have  been  very  near  together. 
What  Mordaunt  had  to  say  was  that  towards  the  end  of 


188  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

June  the  girl  was  walking  from  Berkeley  Square,  where 
she  had  been  visiting,  with  Lady  Barwise,  her  aunt,  and 
that  he,  Pink,  was  escort.  The  weather  was  lovely,  with 
the  planes  of  Lansdowne  House  in  their  fulness  of  green 
— a  perfect  summer  afternoon  following  a  wet  morning. 
Round  the  corner  of  James  Street  came  a  horse  at  a  can- 
ter, and  upon  the  horse,  well  back  upon  him,  the  reins 
loose,  sat  a  fine  young  man,  bareheaded,  in  blue  smock 
and  apron.  He  pulled  up  short  to  let  the  ladies  cross ; 
but  it  had  been  raining  and  the  road  was  muddy.  A 
spatter  covered  Mr.  Mordaunt's  nankeens,  a  fleck  or  two 
showed  upon  Miss  Chambre's  muslin.  "Damn  the  lout !" 
cries  Pink,  and  immediately  begs  pardon.  And  as  he 
looks  his  apologies,  says  he,  he  is  struck  by  the  expres- 
sion of  Miss  Chambre's  eyes — fixed  and  attentive,  as  if 
waiting,  as  if  expecting  an  order ;  and  he  notices  the 
parting  of  her  lips — as  if  she  paused,  but  did  not 
breathe.  She  was  blushing  divinely,  she  looked  splendid, 
he  said — but  she  was  looking  at  the  horseman  who  had 
just  muddied  her  dress. 

And  then,  for  his  climax,  delivered  in  his  best  tones,  "I 
give  you  my  word  of  honour  that  she  bowed  to  him — 
bowed,  sir,  as  you  or  I  to  the  old  king.  And  I'll  be  shot, 
Johnny  Russell,  if  he  didn't  accept  it.  That's  the  word, 
sir:  he  accepted  it,  as  the  Prince  might  take  it  from  a 
bargee.  You  might — "  he  puff"ed  his  cheeks  out,  and 
you  could  see  why  they  called  him  Pink — "you  might 
have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather-brush — by  Gad, 


SCANDAL  189 

you  might !"  This  was  a  story  which  lost  nothing  in  the 
telHng,  and  ran  waxing  all  over  town. 

It's  a  true  story.  That  was  the  first  encounter  she  had 
with  the  redoubtable  Vernour  after  her  escapade  in 
Brook  Street — and  often  enough  she  had  wondered  when 
it  would  come  upon  her.  And  when  it  came,  the  girl  did 
stiffen,  did  blush,  did  watch  and  wait,  did  bow  her  head — 
and  was  accepted.  She  was  never  asked  to  justify  such 
proceedings,  and  had  no  one  to  whom  to  whisper  of  them 
— nor  Avas  she  of  the  sort  which  lightly  confides  secrets 
to  bosom  friends ;  but  she  would  have  been  perfectly  sim- 
ple about  it.  He  was  before  her  again — she  knew  him — 
she  bowed.  What  else.''  That  she  was  glad  to  see  him.'* 
She  was  glad.  That  she  had  been  waiting  for  it  to  oc- 
cur, by  accident.''  It  must  be  by  accident — that's  of 
course.  She  might  have  so  contrived  as  to  meet  him 
twice  a  day  at  the  gates  of  Caryll  House ;  his  hours  were 
known  to  the  minute.  But  that  could  not  be.  That  was 
for  the  Mrs.  Moths,  may  we  say,  the  Harriet  Moons. 
But  if  she  thought — and  she  had  thought — she  must  have 
known  that  she  would  meet  him  casually,  must  have  spec- 
ulated on  what  she  would  do ;  and,  being  what  she  was, 
she  would  not  have  faltered.  Without  pretending  to 
read  her  heart  better  than  j'ou  can,  that's  how  I  put  it 
before  you.    That's  my  idea. 

As  for  Vernour,  it  is  true  that  he  bent  his  head  to  her 
when  he  received  her  greeting,  that  he  looked  at  her 
seriously,  that  he  raised  his  hand,  but  not  to  touch  his 


190  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

forelock.  It  all  depends  on  how  that  was  done — whether 
lightly  or  with  the  deference  usual  from  an  inferior. 
Pink  Mordaunt  said  that  he  jerked  it  up  like  a  field  officer 
acknowledging  a  sergeant's  salute ;  but  that  may  have 
been  one  of  his  after-touches.  He  was  famous  for  his 
technique  in  these  matters. 

He  added,  certainly,  details  of  what  followed  upon  the 
encounter — sort  of  memoires  pour  servir  for  a  sequel. 
Her  great  colour,  he  said,  endured  up  Hay  Hill  and  across 
Piccadilly ;  somewhere  past  Arlington  Street  her  com- 
posure came  back,  and  she  could  give  him  sally  for  sally. 
He  had,  of  course,  sprung  his  rattle  at  the  first  glimpse 
of  danger,  and  kept  it  going  for  most  of  the  walk.  He 
was  true  to  the  traditions  of  his  caste,  you  see ;  and  I 
hope  she  was  grateful  to  him.     She  ought  to  have  been. 

Whatever  Lady  Barwise  may  have  seen  at  the  moment, 
she  never  turned  a  hair.  But  she  thought  proper  to 
speak  to  her  mother.  "Mamma,  you  ought  to  stop  this 
at  once.  It  is  certain  to  be  talked  about  as  it  is,  and 
heaven  knows  what  it  may  lead  to.  Surely  we  have  had 
enough  of  the  man's  horse !  I  do  think  that  we  might 
leave  the  newspapers  to  the  Royal  Family.  I'm  told  that 
the  Duchess  of  Suss " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Louisa,"  said  her  ladyship,  "but 
I  cannot  think  that  my  family  can  compete  for  scandal 
with  the  king's.  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  your  story. 
If  she  felt  uncomfortable  at  meeting  the  man  again,  it's 
no  wonder — and  her  own  fault.      She'll  get  over  that. 


SCANDAL  191 

The  rest  is  pure  imagination,  if  it's  no  worse.  I  must 
be  allowed  to  remind  you  that  you  never  got  on  with 
poor  Hermione,  and  are  hardly  likely  to  esteem  her  chil- 
dren." 

"Her  children  and  Colonel  Chambre's,  mamma,"  said 
Lady  Barwise. 

"My  grandchildren  and  your  father's,  my  dear,"  the 
high  old  lady  replied. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said,  though  the  impasse 
was  felt  to  be  unworthy  of  Lad}^  Morfa.  And  yet  Lady 
Barwise  had  been  justified  if  she  had  but  known  that, 
as  a  consequence  of  this  walk,  Hermia  was  sent  off 
to  Plashetts  to  the  care  of  Lady  Sarah  Coigne,  the 
baronet's  mother.  She  was  not  sorry  to  go,  and  had 
pleaded  for  Harriet's  companionship ;  but  Lady  Morfa 
had  need  of  Moon,  she  said.  So  Moon  remained  in  town, 
and  solaced  her  brown  eyes  with  tears,  or  whatever  balm 
she  could  come  by. 

It  Avas  after  ten  days  or  so  at  Plashetts  that  there 
befell  her  another  adventure  of  the  kind.  On  this  oc- 
casion she  was  alone  in  the  great  Morfa  chariot,  driving 
out  to  pick  up  her  grandmamma,  who  had  been  break- 
fasting with  Lord  Sumnor.  At  the  north  end  of  Bond 
Street  a  horse  had  fallen  under  his  j^okc-f ellow ;  there 
was  a  block ;  and  in  it,  on  his  grey  cob,  sat  Vernour. 

He  was  close  to  her  now,  so  close  that  their  hands, 
stretched  out,  could  have  touched,  so  close  that  she  could 


192  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

see  the  colour  of  his  eyes  when  for  one  serious  moment 
hers  met  them.  This  time,  it's  noteworthy,  she  did  not 
bow,  nor  did  he;  but  the  greeting  was  the  more  intense 
for  the  muteness  of  it ;  behind  the  locked  Hps  of  each 
might  be  sensed  a  cry.  His — "Oh,  I  see  you  there  en- 
throned— and  I  kneel,  I  kneel.  I  am  always  on  my 
knees !"  And  hers — "Here  am  I — what  will  you  have 
of  me?"  And  then  another — "Turn  away  your  eyes.  I 
am  afraid."  It  was  she  who  avoided,  for  he  did  not. 
For  how  long  she  sat  burning  there  is  not  to  be  guessed ; 
all  that  can  be  said  is  that  her  grandmamma  had  no  rea- 
son to  complain  of  her  vivacity  when  she  joined  her  in 
the  carriage.  .Another  odd  thing:  when  they  were  back 
at  the  house,  and  before  Jacob  Jacobs  could  lock  the 
gates  upon  the  divinities  returned  to  the  shrine,  she  had 
run  out  again,  and  had  given  Mother  Cole  a  shilling. 

Mother  Cole  was  a  weather- fretted  old  woman  in  a  black 
bonnet  and  shawl,  who  swept  the  crossing  in  Cleveland 
Row.  She  was  an  institution  as  famous  in  her  quarter  of 
the  town  as  Sir  Jeffery  Dunstan,  Mayor  of  Garrat,  in 
his.  She  was  the  familiar  of  princes  and  peers ;  it  was 
said  of  her  that  Mr.  Fox  never  delivered  an  important 
speech  in  the  House  without  going  over  the  heads  of  it 
with  Mother  Cole.  She  was  a  staunch  Whig.  Lord 
Rodono  had  presented  Miss  Chambre  to  this  celebrity 
upon  an  early  day,  and  much  familiarity  had  ensued. 

Matrimony  was  the  sum  of  her  discourse  to  ladies — 
matrimony  with  a  wink  for  maternity :  gallantry  of  that 


SCANDAL  193 

to  gentlemen — with  a  wink  for  frailty.  She  rarely  ac- 
knowledged Miss  Chambre's  greetings  without  a  "When 
is  it  to  be,  miss  ?"  and  would  shake  her  head  at  all  laugh- 
ing denials.  On  this  occasion,  whether  it  was  the  un- 
v,'onted  shilling,  or  a  light  not  hitherto  seen  in  the  young 
lady's  eyes,  or  a  cheek  too  rosy,  or  a  flutter  in  the  voice, 
Mother  Cole  darted  a  penetrating  glance,  and  said,  "Ah, 
miss !  ah,  my  pretty  dear !  'Tis  easy  seen  he's  been  by." 
Miss  Chambre  made  no  denials,  but  did  not  cease  to  blush. 
It  was  ridiculous,  it  may  have  been  monstrous,  but  she 
was  not  offended. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IN   WHICH   WE  ARE   DEEP  IN  ANOTHER    ROMANTIC   AFFAIR 

"PARLIAIVIENT  was  prorogued  at  the  end  of  the 
-*-  month,  three  weeks  after  Lady  Burdett's  supper- 
party  to  the  new  heroine  of  Democracy.  Gentlemen 
of  the  House  of  Commons  were  dismissed  to  their 
counties,  admonished  by  a  speech  from  the  Throne 
to  carry  with  them  "a  disposition  to  inculcate,  both 
by  instruction  and  example,  a  spirit  of  attachment 
to  those  established  laws  and  that  happy  Constitution 
which  it  has  ever  been  his  Majesty's  anxious  wish  to 
support,"  and  which  his  Majesty's  Ministers,  it  was 
to  be  understood,  did  chiefly  enable  him  to  support. 
Of  such  friends  of  ours  as  had  counties  to  which  they 
could  repair.  Lord  Sandgate  went  into  Wilts  and  Sir 
Francis  no  further  than  Wimbledon.  Mr.  Ranald  re- 
turned to  sea  and  the  harrying  of  poor  Lord  Gambler; 
Lord  Rodono,  staying  in  town,  broke  his  promise  when 
he  asked  Miss  Chambre  to  marry  him,  but  it  had  not 
suited  Lady  Morfa  to  leave  London  so  early,  nor  the 
Earl,  her  son,  to  repair  to  any  of  his  counties.  He  was 
now  at  Brighton  with  the  Prince  and  Lord  Moira,  and 
chose  to  keep  Caryll  House  open  for  his  occasional  visits 
— ^to  a  cock-fight,  or  a  dog-fight,  to  his  tailor's,  or  to  a 


ANOTHER  ROMANTIC  AFFAIR        195 

certain  villa  in  Brompton,  where  he  was  known  as  Cap- 
tain Graham,  and  where  there  was  also  a  Mrs.  Graham, 
who  lived  chiefly  in  a  pink  silk  wrapper.  Later  on  in  the 
summer,  her  ladyship  intended  for  Bath  and  a  round  of 
visits  before  settling  down  for  the  autumn  at  Wrensham 
Park,  in  Leicestershire.  Meantime,  there  remained  a 
party  or  two,  of  a  late  blossoming  sort,  to  be  gathered — 
to  which  she  went  and  took  her  grandchild ;  at  one  of 
which  Tom  Rodono  slipped  away  from  grace. 

Meeting  his  mistress  here,  he  fell  to  railing  at  the 
Piccadilly  fiasco,  for  which  he  said  somebody  ought  to 
have  called  Sandgate  out.  She  was  disposed  to  defend 
it,  not  finding  it  in  her  heart  to  scorn  honesty  even  when 
it  was  compounded  with  shrieking  vulgarity ;  but  he  was 
too  sore  to  allow  any  justification.  He  remembered  that 
Sandgate  professed  to  worship  what  he  had  trailed  in 
the  miry  clay. 

"The  thing  was  execrable,"  he  said,  "or  no !  it  would 
have  been  execrable  if  it  had  not  been  so  ridiculous — as 
it  was,  it  was  merely  squalid.  ...  I  don't  fancy  that 
you  cared  for  my  cutting  in.  Bless  you,  I  know  that 
it  was  flattery  in  its  way,  and  meant  to  be  flattering — 
but  there  was  too  much  of  it.  You  can't  cat  butter  out 
of  spoons.  I  spoke  my  little  piece  because  I  thought  you 
would  have  felt  bound  to  say  something,  and  wanted  to 
spare  you  the  necessity  of  dropping  to  orator  Hunt's 
level,  or  old  Cobbett's.  The  way  it  came  to  me  is  due 
to  God." 


196  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"A  jealous  God,"  she  said.     He  took  that. 

"Yes — that's  truer  than  you  think  for.  And  I  made 
you  angry,  I  fancy — ^but  I  don't  care.  It  would  need 
more  than  your  anger  to  keep  me  from  defending  you. 
You  shall  never  be  cheapened  if  I  can  help  it.  Orator 
Hunt— O  Lord!" 

She  had  not  liked  Mr.  Hunt,  so  said  nothing. 

"Those  fellows,"  he  ran  grumbling  on,  "ain't  demo- 
crats, you  know.  You  must  be  a  gentleman  to  be  a  demo- 
crat— and  a  fine  gentleman,  too." 

"Or  a  man,"  said  she  here,  clinging  to  Tom  Paine ;  but 
Tom  Rodono  wouldn't  have  it. 

"No;  a  gentleman.  In  a  matter  of  give  and  take — 
which  is  all  this  world,  if  it's  to  be  habitable — you  must 
be  able  for  either.  A  man  can  take,  but  'tis  a  gentleman 
who  can  give.  Democracy  without  giving  is  flat  im- 
possible. Lafayette  was  a  giver,  so  was  your  Eddy  Fitz- 
gerald— so's  Bob  Ranald,  and  so  are  you,  in  the  making. 
So's  Burdett,  I  don't  doubt  for  a  moment.  But  Sand- 
gate  !  Sandgata's  as  much  of  a  democrat  as  Bonaparte. 
.  .  .  There  are  the  old  stagers  now,  whom  it  might 
have  entertained  you  to  meet — old  classics,  veterans. 
Tooke  now.  Parson  Tooke !  a  hoary  old  spider,  spinning 
philosophies,  and  then,  with  a  microscopic  eye,  watcliing 
us  try  to  hve  'em  out.  Our  disasters  are  his  gain — they 
teach  him  a  deal.  They  prosecuted  him  in  '94,  and 
might  as  well  have  burned  St.  Paul  in  effigy.  Then 
there's  the  Major.    God  bless  the  Major!  he's  more  hon- 


ANOTHER  ROMANTIC  AFFAIR        197 

est  than  Cobbett,  because  he  has  fewer  half  crowns  to 
spend." 

He  reflected  humorously,  and  chuckled  at  his  thoughts. 
"I'll  tell  you  what,  though:  you've  made  an  enemy  of 
William.  You  flicked  him  on  a  raw — for,  of  course,  the 
fact  is  that  Vemour  refused  his  crown-piece.  The  old 
bull-frog  would  never  have  said  a  word  of  it  if  he  hadn't 
meant  to  quench  the  orator.  That  had  to  be  done,  and 
then  you  had  him.  Oh,  I  love  you  for  it !  The  neatest 
turn  of  the  wrist,  and  you  spitted  him  like  a  master  of 
fence." 

She  told  him  she  had  never  meant  so  much.  "He 
had  been  very  kind  to  me — I  was  prepared  to  esteem 
him  higlily.  But — oh,  he  was  dreadfully  wrong — to 
off'er  money  to  and  then  to  talk  about  it.  Horri- 
ble !" 

"Bad  enough  for  the  Duke  of  York,"  said  Rodono; 
and  then  he  made  his  proposal — in  the  same  candid, 
carefully  moderate  vein.  "Your  grandmamma  won't 
hear  of  me — but  if  you  will,  I  can  bear  that.  I've 
enough  for  two.  Don't  ask  me  what  I  feel  for  you; 
you'd  waste  3^our  time — you  can  see  right  through  me, 
I  know.  And  don't  ask  me  what  I  have  to  boast  of 
— what  pretences  to  make:  they're  mighty  few.  I've 
done  nothing  so  far.  I  threw  up  my  commission  for 
the  sake  of  Parliament,  to  please  the  parent  chiefly. 
There  was  our  rotten  borough,  you  know — rotting. 
We'd  always  been  in  the  House,  he  told  me;  and  I  be- 


198  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

lieve  him.  We  are  of  the  sort  that,  somehow,  always  is 
there.  At  the  very  outset,  I  sickened  of  it.  ^Who  will 
show  us  any  good?^  You  talk  of  Pitt  and  Dundas — ■ 
but  do  you  think  Sam  Whitbread's  any  better?  Do  you 
think  little  Creevy's  a  patriot  .^  Did  Wardle  hamstring 
the  Duke  for  the  salvation  of  the  country.''  However, 
I'm  not  talking  politics ;  you  can  make  a  man  of  me  if 
you  choose.  I'm  in  love  with  you.  Miss  Hermia,  and  I 
want  to  get  you  out  of  this  quagmire.  You've  a  face  like 
a  flower  and  a  soul  like  a  spirit  of  the  fire.  Give  me  my 
way,  and  you  shall  bloom  for  ever  in  a  clean  air ;  and 
your  flame  shall  be  fed  with  ambergris  and  frankincense. 
Scotch!    What  do  you  say.'"' 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  be  said,  and  she  said  it, 
though  she  disliked  the  giving  of  pain.  She  thought 
him  a  lively  and  agreeable  companion,  and  entirely  to  be 
trusted;  but  she  had  a  shrewd  perception  of  the  self- 
esteem  underlying  his  light-hearted  words,  and  the  life  he 
proposed  to  her  was  not  promising.  To  make  a  man  of 
him  if  she  chose.''  How  could  she  help  recalling  him  who 
had  assured  her  with  such  intensity  of  truth  that 
she  had  restored  manhood  to  him  also.''  Ah,  there 
had  been  no  mock  depreciation  of  himself  in  that 
short-spoken  man !  And  what  else  did  Tom  Rodono 
propose.''  He  was  to  be  minister  to  an  altar,  on 
which  she  sat  and  burned.  No,  no — with  Tom  for  ever 
extenuating  his  ministry,  she  could  not  burn ;  she  would 
"go  out."     The  ministering  must  be  the  other  way  if 


ANOTHER  ROMANTIC  AFFAIR        199 

she  were  to  live ;  and  the  mere  thought  of  that  made  her 
heart  leap — and  in  that  leap  poor  Rodono  was  dropped. 
She  dismissed  him  with  an  assurance  of  friendship, 
which  he  was  thankful  to  take,  and  an  offered  hand  which 
he  gallantly  kissed.  He  met  her  on  a  later  day  as  if 
nothing  out  of  the  common  had  occurred — which,  as  far 
as  that  goes,  it  had  not ;  and  she  was  grateful  to  him 
for  that,  because,  to  her,  something  singular  had  oc- 
curred.    The  Violet  Intrigue  had  begun. 

On  that  very  morning,  indeed,  she  received  the  first  of 
a  series  of  gifts — remarkable  for  its  nature,  persistence 
and  mystery  of  origin — or,  as  a  fact,  she  received  three 
of  them  together,  for  they  had  begun  to  arrive  two  days 
before.  Let  me  be  precise  in  so  singular  a  matter.  Tom 
Rodono  offered  her  the  altar-seat  on  June  2-ith.  It  was 
on  June  22d  that  the  Violet  Intrigue  began. 

A  bunch  of  white  violets,  a  good-sized  bunch  fresh-and- 
fresh,  was  left  at  Caryll  House  on  the  morning  of  the 
22d  at  half-past  eight  in  the  forenoon.  It  was  left  at 
the  porter's  lodge  by  an  elderly  woman  in  a  plaid  shawl 
and  black  bonnet,  with  the  simple  message  that  it  was 
for  Miss  Chambre,  and  "particular."  The  violets,  smell- 
ing of  wet  hedgerows,  were  tied  together  with  gardener's 
bast,  and  as  the  gate-porter  said,  when  he  was  interro- 
gated, "took  him  back — ah,  and  back  and  back  they  took 
him,  they  did!"  He  assured  Miss  Hermia  that  he  had 
carried  them  into  the  house  immediately  and  given  them 


200  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

to  one  of  the  maids  with  the  message  as  delivered  to  him, 
that  "they  was  for  Miss  Chambre,  and  particular."  He 
would  swear  that  upon  the  Book,  "before  the  Judges  of 
Assize  and  their  marshals,  and  the  Grand  Jury  of  Mid- 
dlesex." To  which  of  the  maids?  Ah,  that  was  a  puz- 
zler ;  for  he  was  getting  on  in  years  and  took  little  stock 
of  the  maids.  Twenty  years,  fifteen  years  back,  had 
Miss  Hermia  asked  him !  Now  he  came  to  think  of  it, 
he  did  believe  it  had  been  to  the  black-eyed  girl  whom,  on 
that  account,  they  called  Susan — though  her  name  was 
Hester.  He  thought  so,  because  he  knew  her  father,  who 
was  a  market-gardener  at  Mortlake.  Yes,  yes,  and  she 
had  been  sweeping  the  passage  at  the  time ;  and  he  had 
said — his  very  words — "My  dear,  give  this  here  to  Mrs. 
Moth  with  my  compliments,  and  say  it's  for  Miss 
Chambre,  and  very  particular."  "Very"  had  been  his 
addition,  because  "you  know  what  gels  are,  miss."  That 
was  all  he  knew,  except  that  violets  had  been  brought  to 
the  door  at  the  same  hour  ever  since  that  morning. 

Susan,  the  black-eyed,  owned  to  having  received  the 
violets  from  Mr.  Jacobs.  She  swore  that  she  had  put 
them  on  the  tray  with  Miss  Chambre's  tea,  toast,  and 
letters,  which  Mrs.  Moth  was  to  take  up.  Three  morn- 
ings, including  this  very  morning,  she  had  done  the  same 
thing.  No;  she  owned  that  she  had  forgotten  the  mes- 
sage, that  they  were  particular,  or  very  particular.  She 
was  very  sorry  indeed,  and  shed  tears. 

It  was   now   definitely   thrust   upon   Mrs.   Moth,  who 


ANOTHER  ROMANTIC  AFFAIR        201 

evaded  with  practised  ease.  How  could  she  have  known 
— she  put  that  to  Miss  Chambre — that  the  violets  were 
particular?  The  first  time  she  saw  them  she  had  thought 
they  got  there  by  accident,  that  one  of  the  maids  had 
dropped  them  out  of  her  bosom,  "or  so,"  when  preparing 
the  tea-tray — "for  the3'  receive  such  things,  Miss  Cham- 
bre, from  their  friends,  as  you  know !  And  they  put 
them — well,  where  else  can  they  put  them,  poor  crea- 
tures?" Fine,  scornful  Mrs.  Moth.  On  the  second 
morning,  she  owned  she  had  had  her  doubts,  and  had 
made  inquiries.  No — she  had  not  inquired  of  Susan,  but 
in  the  housekeeper's  room,  of  Mr.  Progers,  the  butler, 
and  of  Mr.  Venning,  the  head  footman,  and  of  the  first 
housemaid;  she  confessed  that  she  did  not  "have  deal- 
ings" with  the  lower  servants.  The  third  morning  she 
had  been  positive  that  something  was  intended — "more, 
I  should  say,  miss,  than  meets  the  eye,  as  they  say ;"  and 
so  she  had  brought  all  three  bunches  up  together. 

The  thing  was  certainly  odd,  rather  romantic  in  its 
way.  Who  was  this  old  woman?  Let  Jacob  Jacobs  of 
the  gates  inquire.  Meantime,  the  recipient  met  Lord 
Rodono  after  his  repulse  with  a  new  tenderness,  feeling 
pretty  sure  that  the  tribute  was  his.  How  extraordinary 
was  man !  Ashamed  of  himself  for  the  ver}^  thing  which 
could  be  his  least  reproach !  Why,  this  sort  of  offering, 
so  contemned  by  your  Moths,  was  exactly  aimed  at  her 
weakness.  Simple,  sincere,  affectionate,  humble  things — 
white  violets  fresh  gathered — left  at  the  gate  by  an  old 


202  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

woman — for  Miss  Chambre,  and  particular!  She  was 
honestly  touched,  and  felt  more  kindness  for  Tom 
Rodono  than  she  could  have  thought  possible.  She  went 
out  of  her  way  to  be  kind  to  the  violet-bringer.  She 
wore  the  latest  bunch  at  her  breast,  and  looked  down 
at  it  nestling  there  more  than  once  or  twice.  Tom  also 
looked,  more  than  once  or  twice.  She  wore  no  other 
flowers  or  ornament,  and  he  remarked  upon  it — and 
destroyed  himself.  "Simplex  munditiis,  eh?  I  ap- 
prove," he  said.     She  smiled  upon  him,  very  gently. 

"I  hoped  that  you  would.     They  were  a  present  to  me 
this  morning.     An  old  lady's." 
"Oho,"  said  he,  "you  mustn't  tell  me  that." 
"Why,   what  else  can  I  tell  you.''      Honestly,  an  old 
lady  brought  them." 
"Let's  hope  she's  honest.     I  scent  a  broker." 
She  blushed.     "Lord  Rodono,  you  are  not  angry  with 
me  ?" 
"God  forbid !" 

"You  should  not  be.     I  count  you  my  friend — you  and 
Grizel,  of  my  best  friends.     I  may  prove  you  yet." 
"Prove,  prove.     I  ask  nothing  better." 
"Well,  find  out  who  gives  me  violets  every  day." 
"Every  day!     Is  it  so.'*     Certainly,  I'll  do  my  best — 
but  remember,  I  assassinate  him  if  I  find  him."      She 
went  happily  away   with  the  thought  that  she  had  a 
romantic  worshipper  somewhere  hidden,  and  that  it  was 
assuredly  not  Tom  Rodono. 


ANOTHER  ROMANTIC  AFFAIR        203 

Jacobs,  of  the  gate,  could  find  out  little  or  nothing 
from  his  old  lady,  who,  frightened  by  his  manner,  or  his 
gold-laced  hat,  or  gold  garter,  took  refuge  in  that  sure 
harbour  of  old  ladies,  tears.  Securely  swimming  in  these 
familiar  waters,  she  snuffled  at  ease.  She  said  that  she 
was  a  poor  widow,  by  name  Mrs.  Matthews,  Mrs.  Mat- 
thews of  the  Highgate  Road,  glad  to  earn  her  pittance 
a  week  by  honest  courses.  The  money  was  paid  her 
in  advance  for  what  she  had  to  do — -which  was  to 
go  to  such  and  such  a  street  corner,  receive  a  bunch 
of  white  violets,  and  take  it  to  Caryll  House  gate. 
She  did  not  know  the  person  who  gave  them  to  her,  and 
must  not  say  what  she  knew  of — him.'^  As  the  Lord 
would  have  mercy  upon  sinners,  she  had  not  said  him  or 
her;  she  had  said  'person,  and  "person"  it  must  for  ever 
be  if  she  was  to  earn  her  money — which  was  material — 
and  bread  at  thirteenpence-halfpenny  the  quartern.  God 
pity  the  poor !  She  told  Mr.  Jacobs  that  any  further 
questioning  might  lose  it  her;  and  with  that  she  went 
aAvay.  Next  morning,  to  her  visible  consternation,  she 
had  to  hand  over  her  violets  to  Miss  Chambre  herself. 

That  lady's  custom  was  to  ride  every  summer  morning 
between  half-past  seven  and  nine;  but  to-day  she  had 
changed  her  mind,  and  returned  punctually  at  the  half- 
hour.  She  then  saw  the  plaid  shawl  at  the  gates,  and 
Jacob  Jacobs,  stately  and  remote,  pretending  that  he 
had  no  notion  what  it  was  doing  there.  He  waved  his 
hand,  and  was  about  to  explain  the  phenomenon  to  ^Nliss 


204  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Hermia,  who,  in  her  fawn-coloured  habit,  open  at  the 
throat,  in  her  great  hat  and  grey  veil,  high  on  her  shin- 
ing horse,  looked  like  a  queen  of  Amazons,  able  to  ride 
underfoot  without  ruth  a  whole  phalanx  of  poor  widows 
from  the  Highgate  Road,  The  little  peering  face 
shrank  into  the  black  bonnet,  the  plaid  shawl  shivered; 
its  poor  tenant  was  making  for  the  water  again — ^that 
sure  harbour  of  tears.  "Oh,  miss — oh,  my  lady,  I  should 
say,  whatever  will  become  of  poor  me?" 

"Notliing  but  good,  I  am  sure,"  said  Miss  Chambre. 
"Are  those  my  violets?  Thank  you  very  much."  She 
took  them,  stooping  from  her  saddle ;  carried  them  to  her 
mouth,  and  snuffed  long  at  them.  "They  are  as  fresh 
as  the  day.  I  never  had  such  a  present  before.  It  is 
most  kind  of  you.    I  am  most  grateful." 

"Bless  you,  my  lady !  'Tis  not  me  that  gives  them 
to  your  ladyship." 

"I  suppose  not.  Why  should  you  ?  But  will  you  please 
to  thank  the  giver  for  me?     It  is  a  very  kind  thought." 

"Yes,  miss,  yes,  my  lady,  I  will.  And  proud  enough — 
Lord  have  mercy!  what  was  I  saying?" 

"Don't  be  afraid — don't  say  more  than  you  wish  to  sa}^ 
Good-bye."  She  struck  through  the  gates,  followed  by 
the  groom — then  pulled  up  short.  "Stay  a  moment,"  she 
called  to  the  dazzled  creature,  and  turned  the  horse. 
"Will  you  let  me — give  you  something?  Will  you? 
For  your  trouble  and  kindness,  I  mean."  Horror 
blenched  the  peering  eyes. 


ANOTHER  ROMANTIC  AFFAIR        205 

"Oh,  no,  my  lady,  I  dursn't !  I'm  forbidden — It  'ud  be 
the  end  of  me — of  my  pittance  a  week.  Oh,  pray, 
pray !" 

Miss  Chambre  coloured.  "I  beg  your  pardon.  I  ought 
to  have  known  better.  Perhaps  we  shall  meet  again. 
I  hope  so."  She  turned  and  rode  to  the  door ;  she 
went  upstairs,  her  violets  to  her  mouth ;  wore  them  that 
night,  and.  In  fact,  got  Into  the  habit  of  using  no  other 
adornment  whatsoever.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  why 
the  gift  pleased  her  so  much — whether  it  touched  some 
secret  spring  of  romance,  or  appealed  to  her  passion  for 
simpllclt}^ ;  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  she  came  to  count 
upon  white  violets  for  her  bosom  or  hair  every  evening. 
The  unknown  lover  had  chosen  a  powerful  advocate ; 
but  he  remained  unknown. 

In  Julj',  when  the  Earl  of  ]\Iorfa  went  to  Ireland  on 
private  business  of  his  Prince's,  Lady  Morfa  was  to 
travel  in  semi-state  to  Bath,  Hermla  and  the  brown-eyed 
Moon  with  her.  The  latter  had  hopes  of  the  west,  which 
she  admitted  to  nobody,  but  Hermla,  who  concealed  noth- 
ing, plainly  said  that  she  should  miss  her  violets  terribly 
— an  admission  which  made  Miss  Moon  look  arch.  She 
had  seen  trembling  Mrs.  Matthews  but  a  few  days  before, 
and  told  her  as  much.  "Good-bj'c,  Mrs.  Matthews ;  I'm 
going  to  Bath  with  my  grandmother.  I  can't  hope  to 
see  you  there,  I'm  afraid." 


206  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"No,  indeed,  miss,  you  cannot.  But  let's  hope  for 
happy  returns." 

"Let  us  hope  for  all  sorts  of  things.  I  haven't  heard 
from  Portugal,  from  my  brother,  for  a  month.  He's  a 
wicked  boy  not  to  spare  me  a  letter.  And  that's  what  I 
hope  for  most  in  the  world.  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Matthews." 
And  then  the  chariot  bore  her  away.  Among  the  fare- 
wells she  did  not  make  was  one  to  Mrs.  Vernour,  of  Brook 
Street.     She  had  been  afraid  of  meeting  Vernour  there. 

Bath  proved  to  be  very  full ;  the  King's  Parade  crowded 
on  the  fine,  cool  mornings ;  the  Pump  Room  like  Al- 
mack's.  One  of  the  first  people  she  met  with  when  she 
walked  abroad  was  Sir  George  Coigne,  in  snufF-brown 
coat,  white  breeches,  and  the  neatest  pair  of  boots  you 
ever  saw.  Harriet  Moon  betrayed  herself  by  a  fierce 
pressure  of  the  arm.     "Oh,  Hermy,  look,  look !" 

"Where  then,  my  dear.?  Oh,  I  see.  It's  George 
Coigne,"  and  then  she  returned  the  pressure. 

Sir  George  was  all  affability.  Upon  his  honour,  a  sin- 
gular thing!  Quite  a  happy  meeting — no  place  like 
Bath  for  happy  meetings,  was  there  now.f*  He  hoped 
Miss  Moon  was  very  well ;  he  was  charmed  to  meet  Miss 
Moon — and  Cousin  Hermy,  looking  positively  radiant. 
He  must  positively  pay  his  respects  to  Aunt  Morfa  that 
day.  It  was  pleasant  to  listen  to  such  enthusiastic  bab- 
ble ;  no  place  like  Bath  indeed. 

Miss  Hermia  was  undoubtedly  radiant — with  her  own 


ANOTHER  ROMANTIC  AFFAIR       207 

small  triumph  to  sun  herself  in.  Moth  had  come  to  her 
that  morning  all  of  a  twitter — bursting  with  confidences, 
noddings  and  bridlings.  "Guess,  if  you  please,  miss, 
what  I  have  brought  you  !  Only  to  think  of  the  devotion 
of  some  gentlemen !" 

"My  violets?"  said  sleepy  Hermia.    "Give  them  to  me." 
And  into  her  bed  they  went. 


CHAPTER  XX 

WHICH    DISPLAYS   A   MASTER-STROKE 

li^ROM  Bath  to  Bowood,  from  Bowood  to  Bramshaw 
Demesne,  where  my  Lord  Sandgate  acted  the  respect- 
ful lover,  and  Sir  George,  whose  part  was  double,  had  his 
work  cut  out  for  him;  from  Bramshaw  to  Wrensham — 
the  Morfa  place  in  Leicestershire — I  do  not  propose  to 
follow  Miss  Chambre  so  faithfully  as  did  her  daily  bunch 
of  violets.  I  believe  that  they  missed  her  for  some  six 
days  out  of  six  weeks,  and  most  of  those  were  days  spent 
on  the  road.  One  must  suppose  that  somebody  of  the 
household  was  in  the  secret— the  bridling  Mrs.  Moth, 
for  instance,  perhaps  even  a  grateful  Moon- — if  one  is  to 
account  for  the  fact  that  an  order  for  flowers,  emanat- 
ing from  London,  could  be  obeyed  to  within  a  few  days 
in  Somerset,  in  Wilts,  and  in  the  Midlands.  How  else 
but  by  private  intelligence  could  the  tribute-bringer  un- 
derstand that  Lady  Morfa  would  anticipate  her  visit  to 
Bramshaw  by  three  days  and  have  cut  Bowood  short  by 
three — just  because  she  did  not  like  the  butter  there .'^ 
Nobody  of  Miss  Chambre's  exclusive  acquaintance  could 
have  known  of  such  a  vagary ;  and  yet  Moth  professed 
the  blankest  ignorance !  Miss  Moon,  strangely  enough, 
was   not   asked ;   and  Miss   Moon  was   very   intelligent. 


A  MASTER-STROKE  209 

Perhaps  there  was  a  fear  that  she  might  at  once  dispel 
so  absorbing  a  mystery — I  don't  know.  At  any  rate,  the 
beleaguering  lover,  whoever  he  was,  had  hit  upon  siege 
tactics  which  the  great  Marlborough  could  not  have  bet- 
tered. But  his  master-stroke  was  delivered  at  Wrensham 
Park,  where,  in  the  heavy  heats  of  August,  there  came 
sorrow  upon  the  lady  whom  he  served.  On  the  22d  of 
that  month  the  newsboy  brought  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley's 
despatch,  which  London  had  had  on  the  20th.  We  read 
in  that  how  the  allies  had  beaten  Victor  at  Talavera  and 
driven  liim  over  the  Alberche ;  a  signal  triumph  for 
our  arms.  But  the  death-roll  was  heavy  in  officers  and 
men,  and  held  the  name  of  Ensign  Richard  Caryll 
Chambre,  "a  promising  officer."  A  parterre  of  violets 
would  recoil  before  such  a  blow  as  that. 

The  house  was  full  of  people  at  the  time.  The  family 
was  in  force — Barwises,  young  and  old,  including  Lord 
Barwise  himself,  on  his  yearly  duty  by  his  wife's  side; 
Lord  John  Botetort,  Lady  Carinthia  Gell-Gell  and  her 
flock  of  Gell-Gells,  with  those  high  noses  of  theirs,  which 
made  them  so  like  geese  on  a  common  ;  Sir  George  Coigne 
and  his  brother  Adolphus,  a  callow  youth  with  a  voice 
on  probation ;  the  Lukyns,  on  their  way  to  Hawick,  Mr. 
Mordaunt  on  his  to  Welbeck — Pownalls,  Considines, 
Trembletts,  and  a  half-score  names  more.  It  was  pas- 
sably gay,  sketching  parties,  archery  and  riding  parties, 
dancing  till  the  small  hours  and  what-not.  Of  our  inti- 
mates, INIiss  Chambre  was  certainly  the  happiest  of  the 


210  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

happy,  for  her  fund  of  common-sense  gave  her  the  power 
of  being  happy  when  she  chose;  and  I  think  that  Miss 
Moon  was  the  most  interested.  Sir  George  had  brought 
himself  into  such  a  state  of  love-twitters  that  his  fine  legs 
knocked  together  at  the  knees  whensoever  he  found  him- 
self alone  with  the  lady  of  his  worship.  Miss  Moon,  very 
much  aware  of  it,  made  it  her  business  to  see  that  he 
twittered  just  enough  to  twitter  anon — but  no  more. 
And  he  must  never  twitter  so  much  that  it  should  be  per- 
ceptible to  anybody  else — save,  perhaps,  Hermia.  She, 
her  feelings  obviously  engaged,  could  be  trusted ;  and  be- 
sides. Miss  Moon,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  having  found  out 
that  she  could  trust  her  friend  to  the  uttermost,  had  be- 
gun to  despise  her  somewhat. 

The  blow  fell  first  upon  her  ladyship,  who  certainly 
quailed  before  it.  By  custom,  the  postbag  was  put  into 
her  hands  by  the  house-steward,  opened  in  her  presence 
by  Harriet  Moon,  and  its  contents  distributed  by  her- 
self ;  and  on  that  day  fate  had  brought,  side  by  side  with 
its  fatalest,  a  belated  letter  from  the  boy  himself  de- 
scribing the  passage  of  the  Douro — "rare  fun,  my 
dear,"  he  had  written,  "I  swam  it !"  Lady  Morf a,  who 
had  put  that  letter  apart,  to  be  handed  over  in  due  course 
to  its  owner,  suddenly  stopped  Harriet  as  she  was  tip- 
toeing away  to  deliver  it.  "Stop,"  she  had  called  out  in 
a  curious,  dry  voice;  and  Harriet,  looking  round,  saw 
her  shaking  over  the  Morning  Post.  "Bring  that  back 
to  me."     Which  Harriet  did,  quaking.     Lady  Morfa 


A  MASTER-STROKE  211 

took  it,  but  could  not  hold  it  still.  "I'll  give  her  that 
myself — presently,"  she  said.  "Get  me  my  smelling- 
salts,  my  dear.  I  want  'em."  She  had  never  called 
Moon  "her  dear"  before.     Something  had  happened. 

The  salts  revived  her.  "Thankye,  I'm  better,"  she 
said — and  then,  impatiently,  "Put  all  those  away — I 
can't  see  to  'em  now.  I've  something  to  do.  Where's 
Miss  Chambre?" 

"She  is  riding,  my  lady,  with  Miss  Honoria  and  Mr. 
Mordaunt." 

."Ah !"  That  was  something  like  a  sob  in  the  harsh  old 
voice.  "Well,  leave  me  alone  for  the  present.  When 
Miss  Chambre  returns,  let  her  come  to  me.  Stay,  though 
— I'll  go  through  those  letters  first."  And  so  she  did, 
like  the  stark  old  Norman  that  she  was. 

She  took  the  best,  the  onl}'  possible  line  with  the  girl; 
nobody  can  deny  it  her.  "Come  to  me,  my  child,"  she 
had  said,  having  complete  mastery  now  of  her  voice  and 
nerve ;  and  when  Hermia  came  near  and  put  her  hand  on 
her  shoulder,  she  went  on,  "Sit  down.  I  want  to  talk  to 
you  as  reasonably  as  may  be."  Hermia  sat  on  a  stool 
by  her  knees,  and  Lady  Morfa,  not  trusting  her  hands, 
hid  them  in  her  folded  arms  and  addressed  herself.  .   .   . 

She  was  heard  to  the  end — without  a  catch  of  the 
breath  or  stir  of  a  finger  to  stop  her;  and  at  the  close, 
after  a  moment  of  silence,  Hermia  said,  "May  I  have  my 
letter,  please.?"  It  was  put  into  her  hands,  she  broke 
seal,  she  read  it  through.  Such  was  her  tension  at  the 


212  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

time  that  I  believe  she  could  have  read  it  aloud. 
Watched  by  her  grandmamma,  she  sat  on  looking  at  the 
sweet-bitter  sheets,  and  then  she  said  gently,  "My  dear 
love !    How  he  loved  it  all !" 

Then  something  snapped:  "Oh,  granny,  granny,  what 
shall  I  do  now?" — and  she  gave  way — her  face  in  the 
old  woman's  knees.  The  rest  is  sacred — too  sacred  for 
me,  at  least.  Lady  Morfa,  within  a  year  after  it,  had 
cause  to  remember  the  child  who  could  see  her  heart's 
joy  shiver,  and  yet  hold  up  her  head.  .   .   .    , 

They  got  the  house  emptied  of  all  but  the  most  int^ 
mate.  Sir  George,  very  much  the  gentleman,  was  one 
of  the  first  to  go.  "No  place  for  us,  my  boy,"  he  said  to 
his  brother  Adolphus ;  "we'll  make  ourselves  scarce." 
He  kissed  the  hand  of  his  aunt,  the  fingers  of  his  Harriet, 
and  steered  his  coach  for  Wendover,  Plashetts,  and  par- 
tridges. He  took  Lord  John  with  him  as  far  as  North- 
ampton, whence  that  nobleman  made  his  way  to  New- 
market. Lady  Carinthia  repaired  to  town  in  order  to 
speed  Mr.  Gell-Gell  towards  Baden-Baden;  only  Lady 
Barwise  remained,  she  and  her  immovable  Barwises ;  and 
Archdeacon  Caryll — the  Honourable  the  Venerable,  as 
Lady  Morfa  (fine  old  Erastian!)  alwaj's  had  him  ad- 
dressed— joined  the  party  for  consolatory  purposes.  He 
was  famous  for  his  extemporary  prayers. 

Tom  Rodono,  who  was  in  town,  had  written  her  a  short 
letter,  dated  the  20th,  which  arrived  a  day  or  two  later 
than  the  news.     "If  I  am  truly  your  friend,  I  must  be 


A  MASTER-STROKE  213 

thinking  cf  you  now ;  and  if  vou  are  truly  mine,  you  will 
know  that,"  he  had  begun  ;  and  then,  with  a  good  deal  of 
adroitness,  he  had  praised  the  dead  Richai'd  for  being  all 
Chambre  and  no  Caryll — whereas  the  truth  was  exactly 
the  other  wa3^  Not  a  scrap  of  him  was  Chambre.  What 
would  he  have  said,  pray,  of  his  sister's  summer  exploits? 
Of  the  supper  at  Sir  Francis's,  the  Phr\'gian  cap  on  a 
Caryll  head,  of  a  Cobbett's  lips  brushing  a  Caryll 
cheek?  And  of  other  still  more  dangerous  descents,  what 
Avould  he  have  said?  She  had  gone  her  way  with  the  fire 
of  a  Chambre  blown  b}'  a  Car^'U  pride,  and  if  the  truth 
is  to  be  told,  never  once  in  her  late  crusade  had  she  stayed 
to  consider  what  Dick  would  have  thought  of  her  doings. 
Nor  did  slie  think  now,  as  she  fought  with  her  sorrow,  or 
laj^  prone  on  her  face  and  let  it  do  its  worst.  But  she  re- 
plied to  Rodono's  letter  with  a  gratitude  which  showed 
itself  plainly.  "It  is  certain  that  you  have  a  friendship 
for  me,  or  you  could  not  have  said  so  many  things  to 
please  me.  I  try  to  be  like  Dick,  and  to  bear  his  death 
as  he  would  have  borae  mine.  We  loved  each  other 
dearlj^,  but  I  hope  that  need  not  stop  for  such  a  thing  as 
earthly  loss.  Give  Grizcl  my  best  love  when  3'ou  see  her. 
I  shall  hear  from  her  soon,  I  know.  Your  obliged  and 
grateful  Hermia  Mary."  In  a  postscript:  "Grand- 
mamma is  all  that  is  kind.  I  don't  think  I  ever  under- 
stood her  before.  Her,  and  Grizel,  and  you — I  have 
many  friends." 
Rodono's  letter  had  come  on  or  about  the  24th,  and  on 


214  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

that  day  also  the  violets  ceased  to  come.  She  had  not 
noticed,  naturally,  that  they  had  been  continued  for  the 
first  two  days  of  her  mourning — but  she  noticed  their 
cessation  after  a  time,  and  was  touched  by  it.  The  giver 
of  them,  certainly,  lost  nothing  in  her  regard.  On  the 
contrary,  that  was  the  first  of  his  fine  strokes. 

Her  recovery  was  slow,  but  need  not  detain  me ;  noth- 
ing of  moment  to  the  tale  occurred  until  she  returned  to 
town.  Lady  Morfa  kept  her  at  Wrensham  through 
September,  a  true  act  of  sacrifice  on  her  own  part,  since 
she  panted  to  be  in  London,  in  the  thick  of  events.  Mr. 
Canning  and  Lord  Castlereagh  must  quarrel — did  quar- 
rel ;  must  meet — did  meet ;  Lord  Castlereagh  was  shot  in 
the  thigh ;  both  Ministers  resigned :  and  she  not  there 
to  give  and  exchange  nods  and  winks !  I  hope  that  this 
may  be  imputed  to  her  for  righteousness,  for  it  was 
righteous. 

In  October,  still  in  pursuit  of  rational  distraction  for 
her  girl,  she  posted  further  north.  Morfa  Mawr,  the 
great  castle  in  Flintshire,  was  opened,  and  discreetly 
filled  with  "family"  and  close  friends.  The  unavoidable 
Barwises  came,  of  course ;  the  Archdeacon  carried  his 
dyspepsia,  his  prayers,  and  his  rhubarb  lozenges  on  with 
him;  the  Charles  Botetorts  were  added;  and  the  head  of 
their  house.  Lord  Badlesmere — Marquis  of  Badlcsmere, 
no  less — stayed  for  a  week.  Lady  Grizel  was  made  wel- 
come, and  Lord  Rodono,  considered  perfectly  safe,  was 
allowed  to  shoot  pheasants.     As  for  Harriet  Moon,  she 


A  MASTER-STROKE  215 

was  packed  off  to  her  mother  at  Ludlow  for  her  holi- 
days. 

But  in  November  Whig  nature  could  no  longer  refrain 
itself,  but  wailed  so  loudly  in  Lady  Morfa's  breast  that 
it  could  not  be  denied.  The  Duke  of  Portland  was  dead, 
and  the  Lord  only  knew  what  that  might  involve.  The 
Prince  of  Wales  had  hurried  to  town ;  Lords  Grey  and 
Grenville  sat  in  their  houses  of  call,  asking  to  be  asked 
out.  Mr.  Sheridan  was  exceedingly  busy ;  all  the  Whig 
captains  had  flocked  to  their  standards ;  the  Radicals, 
with  Lord  Sandgate  to  deploy  them,  hovered  on  the  out- 
skirts of  either  camp.  Plot  and  counterplot  were  thicken- 
ing the  air,  and  Lady  Morf a  failed  to  conceive  how  strat- 
egy could  be  upheld  unless  she  were  there  to  nod  and  wink. 
She  had  heard,  also,  for  certain,  that  another  Duke — he 
of  Devonshire — was  inf allibl}'  to  be  married :  a  Whig — a 
duke — a  Cavendish  to  be  married,  and  no  Caryll  to  be 
there.?  Forbid  that,  heaven!  The  great  chariot  took 
to  the  road ;  the  weeping  skies  proclaimed  its  wisdom. 
Rural  England,  dissolving  into  grey  mist,  passed  by 
them  like  a  dream,  and  with  the  dream  went  sorrow,  and 
on  its  heels  hope  was  born  again.  The  lamps,  the  bustle, 
the  cobbles,  and  the  cries  of  London  proclaimed  to  our 
Miss  Hermia  that  she  could  still  live,  that  she  could 
stand  alone — ah,  and  look  for  happiness  yet  to  come. 
Dick  was  in  heaven,  and  she  full  young.  Dick  was  in 
heaven,  and  she  in  thriving  London  and  the  press  of  tliis 
world's  business.     Her  prayers  had  been  said  and  her 


216  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

tears  let  fall.  Dick  was  in  heaven — hey,  now,  for  Lon- 
don and  Reform !  She  really  did  wonder  whether  the 
Whigs  would  come  in. 

Jacob  Jacobs  stood  bowing  at  the  gates ;  the  canary- 
breeched  giants  lined  the  long  vestibule.  Brown-eyed 
Miss  Harriet,  very  pretty,  very  smiling  and  deferential, 
came  out  to  curtsey  to  her  ladyship,  to  be  enfolded  and 
kissed  by  her  champion.  The  dogs  came  wriggling  and 
wagging  about  her  skirts :  great  fires,  brave  lights,  closed 
curtains,  a  tea-table — a  pile  of  letters — hey,  indeed,  for 
London  and  Reform !  The  girl  stood  for  a  moment  and 
absorbed  all  this  cheer  and  substantial  comfort.  She 
filled  her  bosom  with  its  warmth  and  opened  her  heart  to 
its  allure,  what  time  from  their  huge  gilt  frames  stately 
gentlemen  and  satin-gowned  ladies — Vandyckish,  Lely- 
ish,  Kncllerian,  Reynoldsian — looked  benignly  down 
upon  another  CaryU  beauty.  Yes,  yes,  life  was  good — 
and  Dick  in  heaven.  Life  for  ever— and  love — and  Re- 
form ! 

After  tea,  Harriet  Moon  took  her  upstairs,  and  when 
they  were  in  the  corridor,  half  way  down  it,  stopped  her 
unexpectedly,  put  her  arm  round  her  and  kissed  her  close. 

"You  happy  dear !  you  beautiful,  happy  dear,"  she 
said. 

"Foolish  child !  you'll  squeeze  me  to  death." 

Harriet  kissed  her  again.  "Darling,  I  must  tell  you 
something — prepare  you  for  something.  A  secret! 
Your  violets  came  acfain  this  morninir." 


•A  MASTER-STROKE  217 

Hermia  felt  that  she  betrayed  herself  in  more  ways  than 
one.  Harriet  soon  found  out  how  her  heart  was  beat- 
ing. "Yes,  indeed.  They  came  this  morning — by  Mrs» 
Matthews.  Oh,  don't  you  wonder  who  it  can  pos- 
sibly  .?" 

"I  don't  know,"  says  Hermia.  "I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
them.  They  welcome  me."  Harriet  renewed  her  kiss- 
ings ;  and  that  night  Hermia  wore  her  violets  in  her 
black  gown.  It  may  be  admitted  that  she  had  cried  over 
them,  and  held  them  to  her  lips. 

The  Master-stroke  had  been  dealt. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WHICH    CONTAINS    A    CURIOUS    CONFESSION 

WHEN  the  Marquis  of  Edlogan  married  a  perfectly 
insignificant  and  unconsidered  Miss  Augusta 
Poyning,  of  Huntingdonshire,  with  a  fortune  of  no  more 
than  five  thousand  pounds ;  and  when  Lord  Sandgate  ur- 
gently renewed  his  suit  for  Miss  Chambre's  hand,  Lady 
Morfa  knew  very  well  that  she  must  bring  Sir  George 
Coigne  to  the  point.  It  was  the  more  pressing  because  her 
ground  of  definitely  declining  that  noble  person  had  been 
that  George  Coigne  was  already  brought  there.  If  such 
a  sacrifice  to  the  gods  of  battle  could  be  predicated  of 
her  ladyship  for  one  moment,  it  might  almost  appear 
that  she  had  burned  her  boats — or  her  granddaughter's 
boats. 

But  she  had  not  so  considered  the  matter  when,  in  her 
most  urbane,  constitutional,  '89  manner,  one  fine  hand 
upon  my  lord's  sleeve,  she  had  taken  him  into  her  con- 
fidence after  this  fashion.  "My  dear  lord,"  she  had  said, 
"I  am  sure  I  can  trust  you  with  a  little  secret — secret  for 
secret,  is  it  not? — and,  therefore,  don't  hesitate  to  tell 
you  that  my  hope  of  some  years'  standing  is  about  to 
be  realised.  You  will  be  the  last  to  misunderstand  my 
satisfaction  in  a  family  match.  It  can  only  be  known  to 
a  man  of  property  and  position  how  many  difficulties  are 


A  CURIOUS  CONFESSION  219 

to  be  solved  in  that  way — and  in  no  other,  so  far  as  I 
can  see.  My  nephew,  George  Coigne,  is  to  have  Hermia 
Mary — we  hope  this  season.  There  is  really  no  reason 
why  he  should  not  have  his  way  in  that.  It  is  so  hap- 
pily arranged,  nothing  could  be  better.  She  will  have 
my  Botetort  property  when  I  die — it  would  have  been 
her  brother's  had  not  Providence  seen  fit  to  dispose  of  the 
poor  lad;  as  you  know,  it  joins  the  Coigne  place.  I  be- 
lieve— Propert  gives  me  to  understand — it  will  near 
double  the  rental.  It  will  more  than  double  the  acreage ; 
and  a  great  point  with  George  Coigne  is  that  the  shoot- 
ing will  be  greatly  improved.  It  will  be  a  different  thing 
altogether,  he  tells  me.  So  everybody'  will  be  pleased, 
and  Hermia,  I  think  you'll  allow,  is  a  very  fortunate 
girl.  I  make  no  excuse  for  wearying  you  with  these 
domestic  concerns ;  you  have  been  kindness  itself,  and  I 
am  sure  I  need  not  repeat  that  nothing,  literally  noth- 
ing but  family  interests,  family  duty,  could  withhold  me 
from  an  alliance  so  gratifying  to  my  family,  and  so  ac- 
ceptable to  the  child,  as  that  which  you  have  done  me 
the  honour  to  propose."  So  there  was  an  end  of  Lord 
Viscount  Sandgate. 

In  saying  so  much  as  this,  in  revealing  her  settled  pur- 
pose before  it  had  become  anything  more,  she  had  no 
reason  in  the  world  for  supposing  that  it  would  not  be 
carried  out  to  the  letter.  There  did  not  exist  in  the 
Caryll-Botetort  annals  any  instance,  known  to  her, 
where  the  pleasure  of  the  reigning  Caryll  or  Botetort 


220  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

was  not  punctually  and  cheerfully  performed.  Lady 
Hermione,  to  be  sure,  always  crops  up  to  break  the 
sequence — but  that  was  an  elopement,  an'd  she  had 
brought  her  into  the  fold  again  when  the  Colonel  was 
removed.  And  Lord  Sandgate,  to  whom  such  a  state  of 
mind  was  very  familiar,  accepted  his  repulse  like  the  fine 
gentleman  he  was,  wished  the  young  couple  every  hap- 
piness, begged  his  respectful  duty  to  Miss  Chambre, 
kissed  hands  and  bowed  himself  out.  He  was  sincerely 
in  love,  and  would  not  own  himself  beaten  yet.  "She 
and  I  together,"  he  thought,  "might  lead  England  a 
stage  nearer.  But  no  !  It's  pheasants  for  ever — eh  ? 
Oh,  George  Coigne !" 

Meeting  Lord  Rodono  at  Brooks's,  I  fear  that  he  broke 
a  confidence  which  he  could  not  regard  as  seriously  one ; 
and  that  he  could  not,  shows  how  seriously  he  regarded 
his  own. 

"I'm  a  beaten  man,  Tom,"  he  said.  "I'm  winged,  sir. 
Mother  Morfa's  refused  me." 

"What!  that  old  game-bird.'"'  says  Rodono,  who  some- 
times played  the  fool.  "I  never  suspected  you  in  that 
preserve.    Why,  she's  five-and-seventy." 

"She  has  the  wiles  of  Circe  about  her,  whatever.  Let 
me  tell  you  that  she's  made  me  feel  pretty  swinish. 
George  Coigne's  the  man — George  Coigne !  She's 
marrying  the  loveliest  girl  in  England — the  warmest- 
hearted,  the  boldest — to  a  cock-pheasant,  by  God !" 

Rodono   shook   his   head,   knowing  better.      "No,   no, 


A  CURIOUS  CONFESSION  221 

you're  out  there.  George  Coigne'll  never  get  her.  She 
won't  look  at  him." 

"The  old  dragon's  settled  it,  she  tells  me.  The  prop- 
erties march,  it  seems.  And  there's  the  shooting — Oh, 
heaven,  shooting — and  Hermia  Chambre  !" 

Lord  Rodono  could  not  approve  of  his  acquaintance's 
methods,  but  did  not  find  it  possible  to  deny  that,  after 
his  manner,  he  was  serious.  And  if  Sandgate  chose  to 
unbosom  himself,  ought  not  he?  So  he  said,  "You  are 
a  suitor,  are  you.^  I  hadn't  known  that;  and  perhaps  I 
ought  to  tell  you  that  I  am  also." 

"I  supposed  it,"  said  Sandgate;  "indeed,  I  may  say 
that  I  knew  it.    Well,  I  wish  you  the  joy  denied  to  me." 

Tom  was  touched.  "That's  very  good  of  you,  Sand- 
gate— but  I've  been  dismissed,  by  the  goddess's  self." 
Lord  Sandgate  raised  his  head. 

"Did  you .?" 

"But  I  did.  I  swore  that  I  would  not — but  I  did  it. 
Oh,  she  was  kindness  itself — has  a  liking  for  me,  I'll 
swear  to  that.  But  it's  love,  sir,  it's  love  that  will  open 
her  wings — mark  me,  nothing  else !  And  when  they're 
open — she'll  soar — she'll  tower !  It's  not  that  she's  cold, 
insensible,  a  jNIarcella  for  Cervantes's  shepherd;  she's 
not  been  touched,  she's  folded,  has  never  felt  the  sun. 
And,  for  me,  I'm  not  the  god.     Oh,  she's  rare!" 

"She's  divine — could  set  England  free !" 

Rodono  threw  himself  deeper  into  his  chair.  "Eng- 
land!— oh,  your  divided  duty.     You're  but  half  a  lover, 


222  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Sandgate — and  that  won't  do.  Now  I  own  myself  want- 
ing in  the  godhke;  but,  at  least,  I'm  a  neck-or-nothing 
man,  and  don't  give  a  curse  for  England." 

"Why  should  you,  Scotchman.-^    But  you'll  try  again.'"' 

"I  shall,  indeed." 

"Well,  I  await  you.  Then,  by  your  leave,  I'll  break 
a  lance." 

"With  her.?" 

"With  no  other." 

"You  are  very  amiable.  I  feel  that  we  ought  to  shake 
hands  upon  it." 

"We'll  take  it  as  done,  Tom.     When  will  you— .'"' 

"To-night.     At  D House.     Do  you  go.?" 

"No,  indeed.     I  leave  you  the  field." 

Lord  Rodono  made  his  essay,  with  results  which  set  him 

blinking  his  eyes.     It  was  done  in  the  library  of  D 

House,  late  at  night.  She  heard  him  with  gently  bent 
head  and  gently  lowered  eyes ;  heard  him  out — and  then, 
with  a  lovely,  tender,  friendly  look  which  cut  him  deeply, 
quickly  rose,  took  his  arm,  and,  as  they  Avent  out  to- 
gether, leaned  her  head  almost  to  touch  his  shoulder. 
"Dear  friend,"  she  said,  feeling  that  she  knew  him  by 
heart,  "you  are  so  good  to  me — but  don't  tease  me  just 
now.  You  force  me  to  say  what  I  should  not — you  make 
^  me  feel  it  your  due.     I  am  not  quite  free — now." 

"Oh!  Then  I  must  behave  myself.  I  did  not  guess 
that." 


A  CURIOUS  CONFESSION  223 

"No,  no.  Nor  did  I — until  lately ;  but  now  I  think 
that  I  am  sure."  He  was  puzzled ;  had  thought  that  he 
knew  all  her  intimates.  She  saw  him  frowning  over  the 
problem,  and  stopped  him  by  the  door. 

"You  should  know  at  once  if — it's  very  extraordinary 
— if  I  knew  myself.    But " 

Now  he  stared.     "What  are  you  saying  to  me.^" 

"I  am  telling  you  the  literal  truth — that  I  am  not  sure." 

"Of  yourself.?" 

"No,  no.     Of  the  person." 

"The  person!"    Lady  Morfa's  generic  term ! 

"Well,  I  suppose  that  there  must  be  a  person " 

and  as  he  gazed  blankly  at  her,  she  looked  down  at  the 
white  knot  in  her  bosom.  "There's  my  lover,"  she  said, 
"and  there's  my  heart.  Ask  me  no  more — I  am  drifting, 
but  I  have  confidence.  I  am  verj'  happy — and  you  may 
wish  me  joy.     I  believe  that." 

Psyche !     Psyche,  and  the  Unknown  God ! 

After  that,  he  had  a  grim  interest  in  watching  from 
afar  Lord  Viscount  Sandgate  run  his  career  and  break 
his  lance  against  the  violet  shield.  No  bones  were  broken, 
but  the  politician  was  unhorsed.  She  liked  him  less, 
respected  him  more  than  his  brother  in  opposition ;  she 
felt  the  honour  of  his  regard,  and  told  him  so.  "You 
make  me  very  proud,  Lord  Sandgate,"  she  had  said ;  and 
he — "But  you  may  make  me  the  proudest  man  in  Eng- 
land." When  she  shook  her  head,  he  knew  that  he  was 
on  his  back.     He  never  asked  her  again ;  but  would  al- 


224  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

ways  declare  that  he  could  not  cease  to  love  her.  He 
did  not  discuss  his  failure  with  Rodono,  nor  did  that 
gentleman  impart  to  him  any  hint  of  the  curious  con- 
fidence he  had  himself  received.  Lord  Rodono  had  never 
cared  for  Sandgate's  way  of  involving  love  in  political 
ambitions,  and  could  never  really  forgive  him  for  the 
supper-party  in  the  Piccadilly  house — to  which,  rightly 
or  wrongly,  he  attributed  all  that  was  now  fast  ap- 
proaching. He  withdrew  himself,  therefore,  from  his 
colleague's  society ;  and  Sandgate,  a  very  proud  man, 
was  not  slow  to  perceive  it  and  to  make  it  exceedingly 
easy. 

As  to  Miss  Chambre's  confession,  that  had  been  per- 
fectly true.  She  had  known,  from  the  day  she  returned 
to  London,  that  she  was  deeply  engaged ;  and  from  the 
moment  of  surrender  had  not  ceased  to  triumph  in  the 
completeness  of  it.  With  whom  was  she,  then,  in  love.^ 
She  couldn't  tell.  She  ignorantly  worshipped — but 
loyally,  with  unswemdng  faith  and  unfailing  thankful- 
ness. The  veiled  lover  breathed — she  knew  that  much ; 
he  lived  and  breathed — through  violets.  All  that  they 
signified,  all  that  their  coming,  all  that  their  ceasing  to 
come,  and  coming  again,  as  it  were,  on  the  surging  of 
the  flood — all  that  he  was.  Constant,  curiously  subtle, 
mysterious,  reticent,  delicate,  modest  yet  direct;  there 
•she  was  sure  of  him ;  he  could  have  been  modelled  after 
that  pattern.  He  would  be  very  strong — that's  of 
•course ;  strong  not  only  to  do,  but  to  refrain  from  doing, 


A  CURIOUS  CONFESSION  225 

when  doing  would  be  flagrant.  He  would  never  tire, 
never  falter  in  his  purpose,  never  change  in  his  plan ; 
his  delicacy  would  make  him  subtle,  and  his  modesty 
keep  him  on  continual  guard — and  yet,  she  was  sure  of 
this — when  the  time  came,  he  would  bluntly  declare  his 

passion — there  would  be  no  "May  I ?    Dare  I ? 

Might  I  hope -?"   but   instead,  "Girl,  I  love  you; 

come."  And  that  was  to  be  a  lover  indeed — and  to  such 
a  lover  she  was  proud  to  yield.  She  declared  to  herself 
that  she  would  follow  him  all  over  the  world,  "in  a  white 
petticoat,"  like  the  love-lorn  lady  of  olden  time.  Tall  or 
short,  dark  or  fair,  noble  or  simple — these  accidents 
never  troubled  her  at  all.  That  he  was  gentleness  itself 
was  certain.  Could  such  a  tribute  ever  have  been  paid 
by  a  clown  to  a  lady  "H 

What  of  her  earlier  concern.''  What  of  the  timid  eyes 
and  flushing  cheeks  with  which  she  had  hitherto  faced 
the  man  whose  cause  she  had  espoused  .f'  She  could  aff'ord 
to  smile  to  herself  now  when  she  remembered  that  Vernour 
had  been  able  to  trouble  her  heart's  ease ;  and,  what's 
more,  she  had  been  able  to  meet  him  frankly  and  pleas- 
antly ;  to  accost  him  in  the  court,  to  nod  to  him  in  the 
street,  and  to  admire  him  for  what  she  understood  him 
to  be  rather  than  for  what  she  had  made  of  him  out  of 
her  own  enthusiasm.  To  Captain  Ranald,  who  had  come 
back  from  sea,  she  had  often  spoken  of  the  3'oung  man ; 
she  had  been  to  see  his  mother,  too,  and  spent  an  hour 
very  happily  there;  and  then  one  day,  not  long  before 


226  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

she  made  her  strange  confession  to  Rodono,  she  had  met 
Vernour  himself  face  to  face  and  talked  with  him  as  an 
equal. 

She  had  been  in  the  company  of  Lady  Grizel  Tumbull, 
on  a  duty  walk  in  the  INIall.  There  it  was  that  she  sud- 
denly came  upon  Captain  Ranald — with  him  David  Ver- 
nour in  a  black  suit.  Everything  had  followed  very 
simply.  Ranald  had  bowed,  had  introduced  "my  friend, 
Mr.  Vernour — Lady  Grizel  Turnbull" ;  then  Vernour 
had  made  his  boM^,  and  Miss  Chambre  had  offered  him  her 
hand.  Ranald  had  plunged  into  rattling  sea-talk  with 
Lady  Grizel,  prodding  the  grass  as  if  it  had  been  Mr. 
Croker;  Hermia,  bold  in  company,  had  opened  to  Ver- 
nour. 

"You  make  a  holiday?"  He  regarded  her  seriously. 
"No — not  that.  I  am  on  a  committee  with  Mr.  Ranald. 
But  I  have  left  business." 

"Ah !  and  you  leave  London  ?" 

"Yes.  I  am  going  into  Wiltshire.  Lord  Sandgate  has 
offered  me  a  farm."  Her  thoughts  were  wide ;  presently 
she  asked  him  a  question. 

"You  heard  of  my  brother's  death?" 

He  bowed  gravely.  "Yes.  I  had  heard.  He  died  well 
— as  he  had  lived." 

"Yes,  I  believe  it.     Yet  he  was  made  to  live." 

"He  did  live,"  said  Vernour  simply.  "His  death  was 
life — to  him." 

"That  is  well  said.     You  were  in  London  at  the  time.''" 


A  CURIOUS  CONFESSION  227 

"I  am  always  in  London.  Yes,  I  read  it — and  thought 
of  you." 

She  had  no  answer  read}^  for  that.  She  asked  him,  Had 
he  spoken  at  Westminster?  He  had,  it  seemed,  and  was. 
to  speak  again  soon.  But  poHtics  just  now  seemed  to 
her  a  foohshness. 

She  said,  "Mr.  Ranald  doubts  the  value  of  speeches." 

"So  do  I,"  he  agreed,  "but  we  make  wa}^  by  holding 
the  people  back.    We  must  win  on  those  terms." 

"Yes,  yes,  you  must  win."  She  looked  at  him,  and  then 
away.     "You  are  strong." 

"We  get  stronger  every  day — by  holding  back.  You 
head  up  your  waters — and  one  day " 

She  laughed  here,  feeling  the  triumphant  certainty. 
"Oh,  that  day !" 

"It  will  be  a  day  on  which  to  live,"  he  said.  "May  I 
be  on  the  crest  of  the  breaking  wave !" 

Once  again  she  found  courage  to  meet  his  intent  re- 
gard, and  to  smile  her  sympathy.  "You,  too,  love 
battle." 

"I  hate  war,"  he  told  her;  "but  I  love  fighting — with 
my  head." 

"With  your  head.?" 

He  paused,  and  she  had  to  search  for  his  answer.  It 
came  slowly.  "My  heart,  if  you  will.  That  instructs 
my  head."    She  looked  at  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IN    WHICH    SIR    GEORGE    IS    DISTRACTED     BY    HIS    HEART- 
STRINGS 

IN  the  meantime,  the  bringing  of  Sir  George  Coigne  to 
a  point  caused  yisible  agony  to  that  cheerful  and  pros- 
perous gentleman  of  Bucks ;  caused  beads  of  sweat  to 
break  out  upon  that  candid  front,  and  a  perfectly  nor- 
mal heart  to  knock  irregularly  at  a  perfectly  fitting 
waistcoat.  The  "going,"  as  he  put  it,  was  so  exceedingly 
nice :  how  not  to  offend  his  aunt,  how  not  to  lose  his  Har- 
riet— how,  above  all,  to  adjust  his  theory  of  fine  man- 
ners, which,  according  to  him,  lay  absolutely  in  agreeing 
with  every  word  addressed  to  you,  with  his  assumption 
that  if  a  man  of  thirty  thousand  a  year  could  not  choose 
his  own  wife,  damn  it  all,  who  could  ? 

But  here  was  hard  work  for  a  good,  easy  man.  "  'Pon 
my  life,  aunt,  I'm  very  much  gratified — highly  grati- 
fied. There's  nothing  in  life  would  please  me  more  than 
to  meet  you  m  this.  That  property,  Encombe,  More- 
hays,  and  all  that — oh,  it  marches  with  me  all  the  way, 
I'll  not  deny.  Fine  property!  Fine  woods  and  planta- 
tions— wants  thinning,  though;  I  meant  to  have  told 
your  man  about  that,  last  time  I  was  there.  It's  a  very 
handsome  offer,  very  handsome  indeed,  by  Jove !    And,  as 


SIR  GEORGE'S  HEARTSTRINGS         229 

you  know,  I  always  liked  Hermy — full  of  spirit,  full  of 
dash,  alive  up  to  the  chin — eh?  Oh,  Lord,  yes!"  He 
was  failing  fast ;  could  hardly  see  the  brown  eyes  of  his 
attraction — and  upon  Hermia's  account  he  had  posi- 
tively no  more  to  say. 

Nor  did  her  ladyship  need  him  to  say  any  more.  "Very 
well,  then,  George,  that's  settled,  I  suppose?"  was  how 
she  proposed  to  close  the  discussion. 

"Eh?  Settled?"  He  was  shocked.  "Well,  you  know, 
aunt,  a  man  must  have  time,  you  know." 

"It  is  usually  the  lady  who  asks  for  that,"  she  said 
drily.     But  he  leaped  at  it. 

"That's  what  I  meant,  you  know — exactly.  Course  she 
must!  Very  proper.  And  I'll  tell  you  what  I  feel  about 
it — that  a  man  ought  to  cJioose  his  time.  She'd  shy  off 
at  once  if  I — if  I  rushed  her  at  it,  and  all  that.  No,  no ; 
one  goes  tenderly  at  these  things.  I'm  certain  of  that — 
dead  certain  it's  the  wise  plan." 

"It's  not  at  all  my  wish  to  dictate  to  you,  George — 
that  3'OU  know.  Let  it  be  understood  that  you  do  speak 
to  Hermia  and  I  will  see  to  my  part  of  the  arrange- 
ments." And  then  she  saw  fit  to  mention  Lord  Sand- 
gate's  renewed  offer  of  the  other  day,  and  her  own  act 
of  boat-burning.  "So  3'ou  see,  George,  you  are,  as  it 
were,  upon  your  honour !" 

Sir  George  Coigne's  e3'es  stared  roundly  in  his  head. 
Really,  his  aunt  was  a  high  lady — "put's  a  man  on  his 
honour  as  easy  as  I'd  put  one  on  his  back.     And  Sand- 


230  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

gate,  poor  devil !  Bad  luck,  that — damned  bad  luck  all 
round!  What  I'd  give  my  head  to  be  out  of,  he'd  give 
his  to  be  in  with — and  if  that  don't  make  this  world  out  a 
pretty  queer  kind  of  place,  I'll  be  shot."  Thus  he  mused 
as  he  drove  home  in  the  dusk,  and  then  fell  to  dreaming 
of  his  slim  Harriet,  and  to  picture  her  peering  haplessly 
out  of  a  window  towards  the  North.  "The  sweetest, 
gentlest  creature !  The  kindest  girl !  Shall  I  play  false 
to  a  little  heart  like  hers .''  Dare  I  turn  my  back  on  those 
little  kissed  hands.?  By  heaven  and  earth,  if  my  hon- 
our's at  stake,  it's  for  her — and  no  other."  Thus 
greatly  the  baronet  testified  of  his  love. 

I  am  one  of  those — one,  I  know,  of  a  minority — who 
think  it  possible  that  a  lady's  eyes  can  be  too  large ;  dif- 
fering here  from  Mr.  Romney  and  Monsieur  Greuze.  I 
am  sure  that  Harriet's  were  too  large,  beautiful  as  they 
were,  deep  and  velvety  brown.  But  they  loomed,  posi- 
tively, in  her  face,  which  was  small  and  thin,  and  not  re- 
markably well  shaped :  too  broad  in  the  brow,  too  sharp 
in  the  chin,  with  cheek-bones  prominent  enough  to  earn 
her  the  name  of  the  Death's  Head  Moth  among  those 
who  were  untouched  by  her  peculiar  charm.  Eyes  apart, 
her  mouth  was  very  pretty :  she  had  those  features  to 
her  credit,  and  her  courteous,  deprecating  ways.  She 
was  thin,  with  no  figure  to  speak  of,  timid  and  low-voiced, 
sparing  in  the  use  of  her  fine  eyes.  She  was,  however, 
very  intelligent. 

Here  is  a  proof  of  her  intelligence :  shortly  after  this  re- 


SIR  GEORGE'S  HEARTSTRINGS         231 

cent  visit  of  Sir  George's  she  had  sought  Hermia  out, 
and  piece  by  piece  had  confided  to  her  the  whole  story 
of  her  entanglement  with  Lord  IMorfa,  which,  upon  her 
showing,  did  not,  after  all,  amount  to  very  much.  There 
had  been  interviews,  certainly,  and  meetings — in  the 
Mall  and  elsewhere ;  there  had  been  kisses — "Oh,  what 
must  you  think  of  me?  Oh,  Hermy,  how  can  I  tell 
you  these  things !"  But — and  she  laid  stress  upon  this — 
there  had  been  no  letters.  The  affair — she  called  it  "at- 
tentions"— had  begun  soon  after  her  taking  duty  with 
her  lad^'ship — a  time  when,  she  said,  she  had  hardly 
dared  refuse  Lord  Morfa's  gallantry,  and  would  not 
have  known  how  to  do  so.  Since  his  unexpected  visit  to 
Petersham — he  had  kissed  her  then,  when  they  were  look- 
ing at  the  guinea-pigs — she  had  hardly  seen  anj'thing 
of  him ;  had  heard  he  was  entangled  elsewhere,  felt  noth- 
ing but  esteem  for  him,  as  the  son  of  her  patroness,  etc. 
She  was  much  more  serious  than  she  had  been,  and  re- 
gretted that  the  cloister  was  forbidden  by  the  English 
Church.  Questioned  as  to  her  other  affair  with  Sir 
George  Coigne,  she  made  it  evident  that  it  stood  on  a 
different  level.  It  had  been  very  honourable  on  the  gen- 
tleman's part:  a  first  meeting  at  Wrensham,  a  twisted 
ankle,  a  visit  and  a  drive  in  a  dog-cart  at  Plashetts,  and 
an  interrupted  avowal  in  town.  No  more  than  that,  she 
vowed. 

This  was  the  state  of  Miss  Moon's  affairs  when  Sir 
George  swoi-e  that  he  would  be  true  to  her. 


232  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

The  oath  may  have  been  supererogatory,  and  it  may 
have  been  fine :  in  the  latter  case,  it  urgently  required  the 
test  of  deeds.  Yes — but  what  deeds  were  open  to  a 
3' oung  man  oppressed  with  a  theory  of  manners  ?  So  far 
as  he  could  see,  there  was  but  one  thing  to  be  done — 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  his  cousin  Hermy,  and  throw 
himself  upon  her  generosity.  He  returned  to  London, 
therefore,  and  wrote  to  her  requesting  an  interview  in  the 
Mall,  if  she  could  find  it  convenient  to  walk  there  on  some 
fine  morning,  "suitably  accompanied."  He  prided  him- 
self upon  a  phrase  which  was  not  only  eminently  proper, 
but  might  cause  her  to  select  for  duenna  his  IMoon.  This 
Hermia  would  have  done — for  she  was  benevolent  if  her 
intelligence  was  not  great  in  these  matters — had  not  his 
Moon  excused  herself.  She  vowed  that  she  could  not 
possibly  meet  Sir  George  just  yet — that  she  needed  time 
to  reflect — that  he  had  not  led  her  to  suppose — and  the 
usual  half -phrases  more.  So  Hermia  went  out  with  Mrs. 
Moth  in  waiting. 

Sir  George's  agitation  was  such  that  he  lost  grip  of  his 
theory  of  manners.  A  hasty  "Upon  my  soul,  Hermy, 
this  is  more  than  common  kind  of  you,"  was  all  he  could 
manage  before  he  plunged  into  the  thick  of  his  matter. 

"Your  grandmother's  a  wonderful  old  woman,  you 
know — masterful !  By  the  Lord,  she's  made  things  awk- 
ward for  me — and  for  you,  too,  you  know — oh,  yes, 
3'ou're  in  it,  deep!  and  I'm  quite  aware  that  it's  worse 
for  3'ou — don't  flatter  myself,  eh?    Oh,  she's  a  rare  one! 


SIR  GEORGE'S  HEARTSTRINGS         233 

I  remember  very  well  poor  old  Uncle  Morfa — fine  man 
he  was  in  his  prime,  and  when  he  was  let  alone — he  needed 
that,  I  must  say — two-bottle  man,  regular  as  gun-fire — 
I  remember  his  saying  to  me  once —  Well,  well,  he's 
gone  to  his  rest,  eh?  And — well,  Hermy,  my  dear,  the 
thing  is,  what  are  we  to  do — eh?" 

"I  have  no  notion,"  she  admitted ;  "nor  shall  I  ever 
have,  unless  you  begin  at  the  beginning." 

"I  know,  I  know — that's  the  right  thing,"  said  the  poor 
baronet.  "Nothing  like  candour  in  these  things.  Your 
grandmother  carries  it  too  far,  though.  Candid !  She 
uses  a  club — she  la3^s  you  down!  Eh?  Like  a  pipe  of 
port,  by  George!  Why,  she  said  to  me  of  you — when 
we  were  talking  one  day  last  season — Oh,  Lord! — well, 
never  mind  that.  But — look  here,  Hermy,  I'll  ask 
3'ou  right  out,  and  have  done  with  it.  How's  Miss 
Moon?" 

"So  that's  the  beginning,  is  it?  She's  very  well,  I 
think." 

"Hermy,  I  adore  that  lady.  I've  been  head  and  shoul- 
ders in  it  this  two  years ;  constant  as — anytliing.  I 
could  kneel  at  her  feet,  I  do  believe — it  'ud  do  me  good, 
good!  And  I'd  do  it — that  I'm  ready  to  swear  to — any- 
where, by  heaven ! " 

"You  wouldn't  swear  it  to  grandmamma,"  she  said,  and 
sobered  him. 

"No,"  he  said,  "no,  I  wouldn't.  That's  just  it.  We've 
got  to  the  point  at  last.     I  wouldn't,  you  know.     She's 


234  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

extraordinary — she  has  a  way  of  putting  you  on  your 
honour — No  !  I'll  be  shot  if  I  know  how  to  do  that.  But 
I  do  think  it's  a  queer  state  of —  And  look  here,  Hermy, 
you  know — there's  more  in  this  than  meets  the  eye." 

"If  it  is  ever  to  reach  my  eye,  George,"  said  she,  "you 
must  explain  yourself." 

Then,  to  her  quiet  amusement,  he  told  her  the  tale — to 
her  amusement,  because  her  grandmother,  she  thought, 
might  as  well  have  commanded  the  sun  to  shine  by  night 
as  that  this  round-faced,  consternated  baronet  should 
marry  her.  Her  grandmamma  and  her  placid  disposi- 
tion !  Why,  when  her  fate  was  fixed — when  in  a  few 
hours'  time  her  violets — her  lover — would  be  lying  on 
her  breast!  She  wore  them  always  at  night,  and  there 
were  ritual  ceremonies  connected  with  their  putting  on 
and  off  into  which  I  shall  not  pry.  Poor  Cousin  George 
Coigne,  protesting  now  elaborately  that  "of  course,  noth- 
ing could  have  been  more  flattering — of  course,  I  need 
not  say  how  sensible  I  am  of  the  honour — " ;  and  then, 
with  a  veritable  groan,  he  broke  down  with,  "I  say, 
Hermy,  you  know,  this  is  uncommonly  awkward  for  both 
of  us" — and  she  hastened  to  assure  him  that  she  took 
all  his  sensibilities  for  granted,  and  that,  so  far  as  she 
was  concerned,  the  less  he  expatiated  on  them  the  better. 
She  said  that  she  was  not  inclined  to  marry  just  yet,  and 
that,  when  she  did,  she  should  not  allow  grandmamma  to 
dictate  to  her.  Let  him  consider  Harriet  with  her  now, 
and   not  vex  himself   with   grandmamma's   absurdities. 


SIR  GEORGE'S  HEARTSTRINGS         235 

Thus  she  calmed  the  agitated  gentleman,  who  grew  ex- 
tremely docile  all  at  once,  and  took  the  law  as  she  laid  it 
down.  Harriet,  she  told  him,  was  very  well  disposed 
towards  him,  but  for  her  sake  he  must  do  nothing  rash. 

Oh,  upright  judge!  Nothing  could  have  pleased  him 
better.  "No,  no,  by  Jove!  you're  right  there — notliing 
abrupt,  eh?  Spoil  everything — leave  all  that  for  the 
present.  Play  what  we  call  the  Fabian  game — eh?"  He 
saw  himself  a  Fabius,  wearing  down  Aunt  Morfa  by 
masterly  impassivity. 

On  one  point,  though,  Hermia  was  firmer  than  he  rel- 
ished. If  her  grandmamma  spoke  to  her  about  it,  she 
should  tell  the  truth. 

"What,  all  of  it — eh?  Would  you  do  that,  do  you 
think?"  cried  Fabius. 

"Yes,  all  of  it — so  far  as  it  concerns  me.  Of  course,  I 
shan't  speak  of  Harriet." 

"Good  Lord,  no !" 

"No.  But  I  shall  say  that  you  have  spoken  to  me,  and 
that  I  have  told  you  it's  out  of  the  question." 

He  shook  his  head.  "She  won't  like  that,  Hermy. 
That's  not  her  country  at  all." 

"I'm  very  sorry — but  what  else  can  I  do?" 

He  looked  at  her  sideways.  "Well — you  could  say, 
you  know,  that  you  were  thinking  it  over — ^turning  it 
about  in  your  mind.  That's  what  I  should  say — like  a 
shot." 

"But  I'm  not  turning:  it  about." 


236  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"Oh,  of  course,  of  course — naturally — the  thing's  ab- 
surd. But — Miss  Harriet's  awkwardly  placed,  don't  you 
see?" 

"I  can't  tell  a  fib.  Cousin  George — really,  I  can't  do 
that."    He  took  off  his  hat  to  her. 

"Hermy,  you  are  splendid,  by  George !  You  make  me 
feel  a — young  hound,  'pon  my  soul.  And  I  do  hope 
you'll  forgive  me  for  troubling  you  with  these  affairs  of 
mine — and  believe  that  I  put  them  all  in  your  hands 
with — a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  by  Jove ! — and  con- 
fidence, and  all  that.  I  don't  know  what  to  do  for  the 
best — except  that  I  must  see  Miss  Harriet.  Yes,  I  must 
see  her,  cost  what  it  may.  When  I  think  of  what  she  has 
to  put  up  with — there — in  that  great  black  house — with 
that  nodding  old  woman — Oh,  Lord ! "  He  shut  his  eyes 
for  a  moment.  "Look  here,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
opened  them  again,  "I'll  go  to  her  now — I  declare  I  don't 
care  a  curse — I  beg  your  pardon,  Hermy." 

She  was  sorry  for  him,  and  said,  "Let  me  go  to  her 
first — speak  to  her  first.  Trust  me  to  help  you  all  I 
can." 

"I'd  trust  you  with  my  immortal  soul,"  said  Sir  George, 
feeling  sure  that  he  had  one.  And  then  he  kissed  her 
hand,  and  allowed  Mrs.  Moth  to  resume  possession. 

Lady  Morfa  had  nothing  to  say  to  her  granddaughter 
of  any  disposition  made  of  her  hand  or  heart ;  but  Har- 
riet, it  appeared,  had  a  great  deal  to  say — and  a  great 


SIR  GEORGE'S  HEARTSTRINGS         237 

deal  more  than  she  had  been  able  to  say  so  far.  Harriet 
knelt  at  Hermla's  knees  and  wept ;  Harriet  kissed  and 
clung ;  and  at  last  she  made  a  clean  breast  of  every- 
thing— or  so  it  seemed.  But  it  is  to  be  remarked  of  her 
that  all  her  confessions  had  had  the  air  of  finality  about 
them,  as  if  they  exhausted  the  subject. 

"Oh,  I  was  very  wicked — I  know — I  know — "  she 
wailed.  "He  paid  me  marked  attentions" — this,  of  course, 
was  Lord  Morfa — "and  I  was  pleased — very  pleased.  It 
made  me  feel  stronger,  more  able  to  bear — I  was  nobody 
here- — and  her  ladyship  treated  me  like  a  servant. 
Hermy ! "  her  eyes  were  looming,  "how  would  you  like  to 
be  called  Chambre?  I  was  always  Moon — it  made  me 
shiver.  So  then — I  must  tell  you — I  used  to  know  when 
he  was  coming — or  going — and  we  used  to  meet.  And 
when  he  was  kind  to  me,  I  felt  altogether  grateful  and 
couldn't  refuse  him  what  he — what  we — what  I  told  you, 
Hermy,  he  did  to  me.  I  never  loved  him — no,  I  vow  that 
I  did  not ;  and  all  is  over  now  between  us — yes,  all,  all ! 
He  was  very  fitful;  sometimes  I  thought  he  was  inter- 
ested in  me — especially  when  he  came  down  to  Petersham, 
and  left  Lord  Drem,  and  asked  me  to  show  him  the 
guinea-pigs — and — what  I  told  you  before  happened. 
But  then — very  often — he  seemed  not  to  remember  me 
at  all.  And  now  he's  gone — and  I  declare  that  I  am 
glad.     Oh,  it's  better  so — much  better — for  me." 

"I  think  so  too,"  said  Hermia,  rather  drily.  "I  fancied 
that  we  were  to  talk  of  Sir  George." 


238  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"Sir  George  was  different,"  Harriet  said  composedly. 
"Sir  George  always  acted  towards  me  like  a  prince. 
But — "  and  she  hid  her  face  again,  "oh,  but  Lord 
Morf  a  was  a  prince ! " 

"Very  much  a  prince,"  said  Hennia. 

Harriet  looked  up,  vehement  and  white.  "It  is  all  quite 
over.  He  cares  nothing  for  me.  I  know  where  he  goes — 
I  know  everything — I  tell  you,  everything.  Don't  ask 
me  any  more." 

*'No,  indeed,  my  dear,"  said  Hermia.  "Lord  Morfa  has 
no  interest  for  me." 

"Sir  George  is  very  kind,"  said  Harriet,  presently. 
"Any  girl  would  be  proud — "  and  then  she  burst  into 
tears  and  implored  her  darling  Hermy  to  temporise  with 
Lady  Morfa — which  was  precisely  what  had  been  re- 
fused to  Sir  George.  But  Harriet's  argument,  that  a 
girl  in  her  position  must  be  very  careful,  was  a  strong 
one.  If  she  were  to  run  away  with  Sir  George,  said 
Harriet,  how  could  he  respect  her  any  more?  How 
could  she  respect  herself.?  Hermia,  child  of  runaway 
parents  though  she  were,  had  no  respect  for  that  form  of 
marriage.  Why  run  away.''  But  when  she  remembered 
the  Fabian  Sir  George,  and  looked,  not  without  some 
contempt,  on  the  deplorable  Harriet,  she  saw  that  no 
other  marriage  was  open  to  them.  She  consented,  finally, 
to  temporise  with  her  grandmother — to  this  extent  that 
she  would  reply  to  any  commands  of  hers  that  nothing 
could  be  done  until  she  was  out  of  mourning  for  her 


SIR  GEORGE'S  HEARTSTRINGS         239 

brother.  Harriet's  gratitude  for  so  small  a  concession 
seemed  disproportionate ;  and,  after  all,  no  temporising 
was  called  for.  Lady  Morfa  had  methods  of  her  own 
which  did  not  recognise  a  Fabian  policy. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


WHICH  PREPARES 


UT  her  own  affairs  now  called  to  her,  with  urgent 
need  of  her  championship.  At  the  end  of  February 
she  fell  ill  of  the  influenza,  and  had  so  much  fever  that 
she  took  to  her  bed,  and  consoled  herself  with  "Marmion" 
and  her  violets.  I  don't  know  that  she  was,  by  ordinary, 
a  great  reader  of  poetry ;  but  I  am  very  sure  that  at  this 
time  she  was  a  great  maker  of  it.  I  shall  not  attempt  to 
relate  all  the  pretty,  foolish  pranks  she  played  with  her 
daily  gift;  they  were  doubtless  much  as  maidens  of  old 
had  used.  When,  for  instance,  Campaspe  had  the  boy-god 
on  her  lap,  and  no  one  by,  I  trow  she  fondled  him  and 
coaxed  for  a  wound ;  or  when  Lesbia  and  her  sparrow 
sat  alone,  were  the  kisses  less  instant?  So  if  Hermia 
played  with  her  violets  and  lived  with  them  a  life  of  faery, 
who's  to  wonder,  or  to  blame?  They  made  fragrant 
both  her  waking  and  her  sleeping  hours,  crimsoned  all 
her  dreams  of  day  and  night.  It  may  well  have  been 
during  this  time  of  quickened  senses  and  imagination 
fever-fed  that  she  staked  her  heart  upon  the  issue  which 
was  now  so  near. 

I  say  that  she  indulged  herself — and  she  did  when  she 
made  of  her  own  will  the  admission  to  Harriet  Moon 


WHICH  PREPARES  241 

which  had  been  drawn  out  of  her  by  the  constancy  of 
Tom  Rodono.  Harriet  sat  with  her  a  good  deal,  and 
noted  the  violet-play  with  a  very  perspicacious  eye.  The 
flowers  were  never  drawn  from  the  bosom  and  laid  upon 
the  lips,  to  be  returned  presently  and  hidden  in  their 
nest,  but  Harriet  saw  the  manoeuvre  and  wisely  smiled. 
But  what  she  knew,  or  may  have  known,  or  may  have 
guessed,  she  did  not  say.  She  hovered  about  them  after 
her  manner — "Darling,  your  flowers  console  you?"  she 
would  ask,  and  if  Hermia,  violets  at  her  mouth,  smiled 
behind  them,  or  smiled  with  her  bright  eyes,  Harriet 
would  nod  and  look  wise — and  presently  she  would  sigh. 
"You  should  be  happy,  dearest,  I  think — to  be  loved  so 
long." 

To  this,  on  one  day  or  other,  Hermia  answered,  "I  am 
perfectly  happy.  I  believe  I  want  no  more  of  life  than 
this." 

"But  He  will  want  more,"  said  Harriet,  and  Hermia, 
dreamy,  asked,  "He. ^  Who  is  he.?  Are  you — is  it — sure 
that  your  He  is  not  a  she.?" 

Harriet  said  that  she  was  sure.  "Then  I  am  not,"  says 
Hermia,  "and  what  is  more,  I  don't  wish  to  be.  If  I  am 
loved,  and  can  love,  what  more  do  I  need.?" 

This  was  rubbish,  but  Harriet  did  not  say  so.  She 
asked  presently  whether  her  dearest  friend  had  ever 
thought  who  it  was  that  loved  her  so  secretly,  and  whom 
it  was  she  loved.?    Yes,  said  Hermia,  she  had  thought. 

"And  you  know  nothing.?" 


242  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

She  was  snuffing  at  her  flowers,  but  her  eyes  were  steady 
on  her  friend,  '  "I  know  nothing  certainly ;  nothing  I 
could  talk  about." 

"And  yet  you  are — in —    Oh,  Hermy ! " 

She  admitted  it.  "Yes,  I  am  in  love,  but  I  don't  know 
with  whom — not  certainly." 

"But — dearest — I  don't  at  all  understand  you  now." 

"How  should  you  ?"  said  Hermia — then  she  held  up  her 
flowers.  "He  has  sent  me  these  for  nine  months.  I  cannot 
but  be  grateful,  I  cannot  but  be  humble  to  such  a  lover 
as  that.  I  am  grateful — I  love  him  dearly.  I  am 
humble — I  would  obey  him  in  everything.  No  one  in 
the  world  has  ever  been  loved  like  this — in  the  dark." 
Then  she  remembered.  "Yes,  there  was  one  woman  who 
was  loved  in  the  dark.    Her  name  was  Psyche." 

"A  fable,  darling !    Psyche  is  the  soul." 

"Well,"  said  Hermia,  "and  haven't  I  a  soul?" 

Such  talk — of  souls  and  their  love-aff'airs — was  highly 
unprofitable  to  Harriet  Moon ;  she  was  rather  shocked, 
rather  scandalised.  No  confession  she  had  ever  made  of 
love-lorn  baronets  or  kisses  given  and  received  before 
guinea-pigs  could  be  so  damaging  as  this. 

"Dearest  Hermy,"  she  said,  "you  make  me  unhappy.  I 
entreat  you  to  reflect." 

"I  have  reflected,  my  dear,"  said  Hermia.  "I  am  re- 
flecting now." 

"No,  indeed,  you  are  not.  You  are  kissing  your  vio- 
lets." 


WHICH  PREPARES  243 

"They  kiss  me." 

"This  person,"  said  Harriet,  "have  you  never  thought? 
It  might  be  anybody — quite  undesirable.  Surely,  surely, 
you  see." 

She  nodded.  "I  do  see — that  you  can  imagine  it  being 
somebody  impossible.  You  think  it  might  be — Progers, 
for  instance — or  one  of  the  men-servants?" 

"No,  darling,  you  wrong  me.  I  think  nothing  so  ab- 
surd. But  I  do  think — "  She  paused.  Yes,  she  must 
say  it.  "I  do  think  that — possibly — it  might  be — young 
Mr.  Vemour ! " 

Hermia,who  was  in  a  stare,  did  not  answer  immediately ; 
but  she  laid  her  violets  on  the  bed.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I 
have  thought  of  that.  I  have  wondered.  Some  day  I 
may  ask  him.  But  it  makes  no  difference  that  I  can 
see." 

"No  difference!    Dearest!" 

"None  at  all.  Either  one  loves  or  one  doesn't;  either 
one  is  loved,  or  is  not.  And  if  one  is  loved  in  so  beautiful 
a  way  that  must  mean  that  the  lover  is  noble.  And  if 
one  loves — even  if  one  loves  an  impossible  person,  as  you 
say — if  one  loves  with  all  one's  heart,  and  is  grateful, 
and  is  humble — there  can  be  no  harm.  At  least,  I  can 
see  none." 

Harriet  stooped  over  the  bed  and  embraced  her,  held 
her  close  in  her  arms.  "Darling,  tell  me  all !  You  love 
Mr.  Vernour.    You  do !    I  know  it."    Hermia  kissed  her. 

"You  should  be  told  if  I  could  tell  you.     I  love  the 


244  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

giver  of  my  flowers — and  have  loved  him  since  October. 
Perhaps  longer;  but  it  was  in  October  that  I  knew  it 
for  certain." 

"In  October?" 

"Yes.  When  we  came  back  to  town — and  you  brought 
me  my  flowers — and  I  was  glad."  She  stirred  in  Har- 
riet's arms,  and  snuggled  down.  "I  cried,"  she  said  in  a 
whisper,  "and  kept  them  with  me  all  night.  They  have 
never  left  me  since."  And  then  she  took  them  up,  kissed 
them,  and  put  them  in  her  bosom. 

Hermia  knew,  though  Harriet  did  not,  that  Mr.  Ver- 
nour  was  still  in  London.  Moth  had  brought  her  that 
news — that  he  had  inquired  how  she  did,  and  that  he  in- 
quired every  day.  On  one  occasion  he  brought  her  some 
flowers — purple  and  white  anemones — which  he  told 
]\Ioth  were  from  his  mother  "for  Miss  Chambre,  with  her 
respects,"  and  came  from  Feltham.  She  remembered 
presently  that  he  had  a  friend  there — a  nursery  gar- 
dener— and  that  he  used  to  ride  the  chestnut  thither  on 
Sundays.  A  message  was  sent  to  him  by  Moth  that  she 
thanked  him  for  calling,  and  begged  her  kind  love  to 
Mrs.  Vernour. 

He  no  longer  called  for  orders,  Moth  said,  as  he  had 
retired  from  business,  and  was  intending  for  the  country. 
He  came  "like  a  gentleman,"  she  said,  and  described  his 
appearance  as  being  very  like  that  of  the  Prince  of 
Wales — but  not  so  plump.  He  still  came,  of  course,  to 
the  tradesman's  door;  but  Moth  had  heard  that  he  was 


WHICH  PREPARES  245 

becoming  a  great  politician,  and  had  spoken  at  a  West- 
minster meeting  with  "Sir  Francis  and  the  Honourable 
Captain  Ranald,  and  others  of  the  nobility — all  in  favour 
of  Reform,  miss,  and  what  a  shame  it  was."  When  she 
recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  go  downstairs  and  see 
compan}^,  she  heard  of  that  Westminster  meeting — from 
Mr.  Ranald.  There  had  been  a  great  to-do ;  they  talked 
of  prosecuting  Sir  Francis. 

She  asked  him,  Had  Vernour  spoken.'^ 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  well.  We  should  like  some  more 
of  his  sort.  He's  one  of  those  men  who  say  httle  and 
imply  much.  And  he  knows  his  power  and  how  to  hus- 
band it.    He's  for  a  waiting  game." 

"I  am  sure  he's  very  strong,"  she  said. 

"If  he  is,"  said  Ranald,  "he  owes  it  to  you." 

"Tome.?" 

"To  no  other.  He  began  to  speak  in  public  after  that 
trouble  of  his,  in  which,  if  you'll  let  me  say  it,  you  played 
a  fine  part.  I  should  like  to  put  it  that  he  saw,  from 
what  you  did,  that  a  cause  which  could  breed  such  an  act 
was  a  cause  worth  talking  about.  And  though  he's  no 
great  talker,  as  I  say,  he  makes  a  fine  show.  He  can 
restrain  himself.    He's  a  gentleman." 

"I  am  sure  that  he  is,"  said  Miss  Hermia. 

Having  ascertained  from  Moth  that  Vernour  had  gone 
into  the  country,  beyond  all  doubt,  she  felt  that  she 
might  safely  pay  a  visit  to  Brook  Street ;    and  so  she 


246  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

did,  taking  Harriet  with  her.  The  lady  received  her 
with  great  simplicity,  and  talked  at  length  about  her 
remarkable  son.  He  had  received  a  handsome  offer  from 
Lord  Sandgate  of  a  grazing  farm  in  the  Avon  Valley, 
and  was  now  gone  down  to  inspect  it.  There  was  little 
doubt  but  that  he  would  accept  it.  His  father  was  will- 
ing, and  David  had  never  been  happy  in  business.  His 
heart  was  in  the  land,  and  in  books.  As  for  politics,  no 
doubt  he  was  for  Reform  ;  but  Mrs.  Vernour  hoped  that 
he  would  lose  his  zest  for  public  speaking. 

"He's  quick-spirited.  Miss  Chambre,  and  means  what 
he  says.  And  he  makes  enemies,  I  fear.  Captain  Ranald, 
who  is  his  best  friend,  makes  them,  too ;  but  people  will 
take  from  a  lord's  son  more  than  they  will  from  a  trades- 
man. They  say,  It's  only  his  fun,  of  such  as  Mr.  Robert ; 
but  of  my  boy,  they  judge  that  he's  bitter — which  is  far 
from  the  truth.  He  will  be  sorry  to  have  missed  your 
visit.  Miss  Chambre,  really  sorry.  He  thinks — he  never 
forgets  what  you  did  for  him."  At  parting,  she  took 
leave  to  congratulate  the  young  lady.  "I  hear  talk  of  a 
wedding.  Miss  Chambre — and  a  great  ball  that  is  to 
come.    I  hope  that  I  may  wish  you  joy." 

Hermia  laughed.  "My  grandmother,  you  mean.  You 
must  wish  her  joy  of  the  ball." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IN  WHICH  SHE  SEALS  HER  INDENTURES 

npHE  Countess  of  Morfa's  ball,  "to  have  the  honour 
■^  of  meeting  His  Royal  Higlmess,"  was  fixed  for  the 
fifteenth  of  April,  and  was  to  be  preceded  by  a  banquet  of 
forty  persons  carefully  and  rigidly  selected.  Each  assem- 
bly in  its  kind  was  to  be  such  as  comported  with  the  great- 
ness of  the  house  of  Caryll ;  but  collectively  the  two  were 
to  be  more.  They,  were  to  declare  to  the  world  the  alliance 
which  her  ladyship  contemplated,  the  marriage  of  Miss 
Hermia  Mary  Chambre  with  Sir  George  Coigne,  Bart., 
of  Plashetts,  in  Bucks,  which  she  had  decreed.  And  the 
great  world  so  understood  it  to  be,  without  any  official 
announcement  in  the  Morning  Post.  Whether  Lady 
INIorfa  had  her  doubts  of  her  granddaughter's  docility, 
or  whether,  perhaps,  she  had  no  doubts,  I  cannot  say: 
all  that  I  know  is  that  she  spoke  not  one  word  to  the 
young  lady  mostly  concerned  of  the  plans  she  had  made 
in  a  matter  vitally  interesting  to  most  young  ladies. 
Miss  Chambre,  as  we  know,  had  her  own  opinion  by  this 
time  of  love  and  marriage  and  such-like,  and  had  come 
to  a  very  clear  understanding  with  Sir  George  Coigne. 
She  would,  therefore,  have  viewed  with  great  calm  tliese 
elaborate  preparations  to  herald  an  event  which  could 


248  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

never  by  any  possibility^  occur,  if  her  private  and  curious 
affairs  had  not  made  them  of  singular  moment  to  her. 
But  as  these  were,  she  was  strangely  uneasy  and  excited 
by  a  certainty  which  she  had  that  this  particular  day  and 
this  pai'ticular  party  were  to  bring  her  sharply  to  a 
crisis. 

At  half -past  six  on  the  evening  of  this  day  she  was  in 
her  dressing-room  and  in  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Moth.  Her 
coiffure  was  nearlj-  done,  for  Moth  had  been  deft  over 
the  coiHng  and  curling  of  the  most  beautiful  hair  in 
London,  as  she  heartily  declared  it.  The  Greek  fashion 
was  then  in  vogue — a  high  top-knot,  with  broad  fillet  to 
hold  it,  side  curls,  and — for  this  occasion — stiff  white 
feathers  must  be  added;  for  the  court  demanded  them. 
This,  I  say,  was  nearly  done:  her  dress  of  black  and 
silver  lay  over  a  chair;  her  silver  scarf  with  it — in  a 
moment  or  two  more  she  must  stand  up  to  be  dressed; 
but  in  the  meantime  she  sat  with  her  thoughts — wonder- 
ing and  searching  into  the  warm  dusk  for  any  sign 
which  might  reveal  "o hither  and  with  whom  she  jour- 
neyed. 

This  haunted,  wonder-charged  journey,  which  she  had 
been  making  in  secret  places  for  so  long,  had  changed 
of  late.  Formerly,  she  had  wandered  without  inile  or 
purpose ;  but  there  had  been  times  when  the  world  about 
her  seemed  real  again ;  when  the  men  and  women  with 
whom  she  talked,  whose  hands  touched  hers,  were  able 
to  affect  her  with  pleasure  or  distress,  with  admiration  or 


SHE  SEALS  HER  INDENTURES         249 

disgust.  The}^  had  at  least  as  much  claim  to  reality  as 
those  shrouded,  flitting  forms  which  peopled  her  dream- 
world. Thus  she  had  been  able  to  be  sorry  for  Sir 
George's  perplexities,  and  to  be  grieved  by  Harriet's 
sobbed  confessions,  to  be  kind  to  Tom  Rodono,  and 
moved  by  the  force  of  Bob  Ranald.  But  now — of  late — 
all  these  had  receded  further  and  further  into  the  mists. 
She  could  still  hear  their  voices,  muffled  and  far-off; 
still  see,  or  think  to  see,  their  foolish,  peering,  staring, 
agitated  faces  as  they  bobbed  up  and  down  in  assembly — 
but  the}'  were  nothing,  they  were  dreams  of  old  da3's, 
ghosts  like  her  father  and  mother  and  poor  Dick,  un- 
profitable, touching,  unavaihng  memories.  Really  and 
actually  now  she  was  living  terribly,  sweetly,  in  a  secret 
companionship — sought  out,  wooed  by  an  unknown  lover, 
who  now  had  won  her  and  was  about  to  claim  his  wages. 
She  thought  that  she  was  being  led,  now,  at  this  dusky 
hour  of  what,  in  the  old  world,  men  called  the  fifteenth 
of  April — was  being  led,  as  by  the  hand,  from  court  to 
court  of  some  wonderful,  empty  house.  She  could  have 
described  to  you — if  you  had  suddenly  startled  her  with 
the  question — the  walls  and  coffered  ceilings,  the  arch- 
ways and  pavements  and  flowers  and  fountain-basins  of 
this  windowless  house;  she  could  have  told  you  of  the 
long  journeying  and  of  the  certainty  which  awaited  her 
at  the  end  of  it.  She  could  not  see  who  guided  her ;  she 
could  only  feel,  not  see,  the  strong  hand  in  which  her 
own  lay  contented.    There  was  no  one  visibly  beside  her ; 


250  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

yet  one  was  there,  and  had  her  in  an  invisible  hand.  No 
voice  spoke  to  her:  there  was  no  need  of  speech  when 
her  heart  held  the  certain  sense.  "Come,  my  bride,  this 
house  is  thine  and  mine.  This  is  the  house  of  love,  and 
the  hour  of  it  has  come  upon  thee." 

Words  of  terrible  sweetness  they  were:  she  had  heard 
them  all  day,  and  had  not  dared  to  answer,  "Yes,  I  will 
come.  See,  my  lord,  I  am  here :  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt." 
No  voice  had  he  who  spoke,  and  she  needed  none  to 
answer.  Shy  as  a  bride,  and  glad  in  her  own  beauty, 
which  had  found  such  favour,  she  paced  slowly  the  empty 
rooms,  that  fair  house,  with  downcast  eyes  and  glowing 
cheeks.  She  had  no  thought  of  drawing  back ;  she  was 
passive  now.  Striving,  daring,  contending  in  the  world 
were  all  done.  She  had  reached  that  point  where  the 
woman  gives  over,  is  possessed;  and  her  heart  swelled 
with  the  pride  of  perfect  surrender  to  the  sovereign  will. 

The  chatter  of  Moth,  the  quick-glancing,  quick- 
fingered  tire-woman,  was  like  the  twitter  of  sparrows  in 
the  eaves  to  one  who  watches  through  the  dawn  for  some 
one  to  come  home.  If  she  heard  it,  she  had  no  heed  for 
it.  My  lord,  said  Moth,  had  returned.  What  lord? 
Why,  my  Lord  Morfa,  of  course — what  other  lord  had 
Moth? — my  lord  had  returned  to  town  with  the  Prince, 
and  would  be  here  to  receive  His  Royal  Highness.  It 
appeared,  however,  that  his  lordship  would  not  dine — in 
fact,  he  had  sent  word  by  Mr.  Pigott,  his  servant,  that 
he  was  unavoidabh'  detained.     This  was  extraordinary — 


SHE  SEALS  HER  INDENTURES        251 

in  Moth's  opinion.  Her  ladyship  had  said  very  httle,  but 
everybody  knew  that  she  was  much  offended:  her  lady- 
ship said  least  when  she  was  most  offended,  as  everybody 
knew.  ]Moth  took  upon  herself  to  commiserate  Miss 
jMoon,  who  must  now  be  enduring  her  ladyship  at  her 
worst.  A  place  had  to  be  filled  at  the  last  moment — and 
Miss  Moon,  it  was  understood,  had  been  bidden  to  send 
for  Mr.  Banks.  Mr.  Banks?  Who  was  Mr.  Banks.? 
Why,  surely  Miss  Chambre  would  remember  that  sallow, 
thin  gentleman  with  black  nostrils — "like  open  graves," 
said  Moth — whom  Miss  Chambre  had  met  on  a  coach  and 
asked  to  the  house.  Her  ladyship  esteemed  Mr.  Banks, 
Moth  believed,  and  made  him  useful  "in  the  newspaper 
way."  He  had  influence,  they  said ;  he  was  listened  to  ; 
and,  of  course,  he  would  do  anything  for  her  ladj'ship. 
This  was  a  great  day  for  Mr.  Banks.  Was  he  coming.^ 
Why,  of  course  he  was  coming.  She  should  hope  so.  It 
was  a  command — to  meet  His  Roj^al  Highness. 

To  these  facts  of  more  or  less  importance  INIiss  Chambre 
gave  no  heed.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  she  heard 
them;  and  certain  it  is  that  she  did  not  appreciate  her 
Uncle  Morfa's  absence  from  the  banquet  as,  say,  Miss 
Harriet  ]\Ioon  would  have  done.  Her  thoughts  held  her 
in  thrall.  She  was  living  elsewhere  and  apart ;  walking 
in  invisible  company,  led  by  an  invisible  hand  to  her  sure 
and  certain  destiny. 

Prevision,  second-sight,  fore-knowledge,  whatever  you 
choose  to  call  it,  may  be  guessed  at.    Yet,  when  she  found 


252  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

herself  convinced,  as  she  had  found  herself  ever  since 
her  admissions  to  Harriet  Moon,  that  her  time  was  at 
hand,  she  had  had  something  to  go  upon,  some  rough 
logic  of  the  head  to  support,  if  that  were  needed,  the 
infallible  sophistry  of  the  heart.  Those  admissions  had 
been  made  some  two  weeks  ago,  but  every  day  and  every 
night  following  upon  them  had  but  added  to  her  cer- 
tainty that  her  fate  overshadowed  her.  Her  flowers  had 
come  exactly  as  usual — at  the  same  hour,  by  the  same 
hand.  She  had  untied  them  herself,  and  every  time  she 
did  it  she  had  separated  the  stalks  with  trembling  fingers 
which  expected  momentarily  to  light  upon  some  written 
word  lying  concealed.  But  there  had  been  nothing  at 
all ;  and  here  she  had  found  the  ground  of  her  inference, 
or  ground  for  many. 

If  the  giver  of  her  violets  were  near  her,  in  London, 
say ;  if,  indeed,  he  lived  at  all  and  could  learn  the  things 
that  concerned  her,  then  he  must  know  by  common 
rumour  what  this  fifteenth  of  April  imported  for  her  and 
her  affairs.  And  if — she  reasoned — if  this  night  and  its 
violet-gift  passed  without  a  sign,  he  (supposing  that  he 
lived  at  all)  must  surely  know  that  he  would  have  no 
further  right  to  send  her  flowers,  as  men  and  women 
judge  these  things.  For  men  and  women  say  that  to 
send  flowers  daily  to  a  maiden  is  a  declaration  of  love, 
and  to  send  them  daily  to  a  plighted  maid  is  the  act  of 
a  robber. 

The  thought  had  smitten  her  suddenly  one  day.  Say 


SHE  SEALS  HER  INDENTURES         253 

that  from  the  fixed  night  he  ceased  to  send  them,  what 
should  she  do — now  that  he  had  brought  her  to  this 
pass?  Now  that  she  had  given  herself;  was,  as  she 
verily  believed,  handfasted  to  him?  For  was  she  not? 
Her  flowers  had  lain  in  her  bosom  all  night,  and  night 
after  night ;  her  flowers  and  all  that  they  signified  to  her, 
which  was  more  than  any  mere  flowers  could  ever  signify. 
They  had  been  free  of  her  lips,  her  tears,  her  breast,  and 
her  side ;  and  not  without  disgrace,  only  as  a  maid  un- 
done could  she  now  stand  before  the  world ;  as  one  who 
had  sufi^ered  love  and  repaid  love  with  love,  and  was  now 
forsaken — like  Psyche,  hke  Psyche  who  had  also  loved 
and  been  loved  in  the  dark.  She  pictured  herself  dis- 
mayed and  forlorn,  wandering  footsore,  dishevelled,  with 
a  bleeding  heart,  the  streets,  the  squares,  the  parks  of 
London,  looking  for  the  Unknown  who  had  taught  her 
love,  betrayed,  shamed,  and  left  her.  These  were  hot 
and  incredible  thoughts :  yet  were  he  mortal  man  or  god 
such  must  be  her  portion  if  the  only  sign  vouchsafed  her 
were  the  ceasing  of  her  flowers. 

And  if,  in  spite  of  a  declared  engagement,  they  did  not 
cease  to  come,  and  she  must  learn  by  that  that  this  lover 
of  hers  was  not  a  mortal  man  at  all,  then  how  ttrrible 
was  her  destiny,  how  strange,  how  sweet!  What  must 
happen  to  her  then — to  her,  the  free,  the  proudly  con- 
fident, the  clear  speaker  of  truth  and  well-spring  of 
honour?  How  could  she  appear  as  wife,  who  had  a  secret 
lover?     How  could  she  give  to  a  husband,  a  man,  that 


254  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

right  which  the  god  in  flower-shape  had  had  of  her  and 
still  chose  to  claim?  She  must  remain  unmarried,  could 
not  dare  to  marry.  It  would  be  mortal  sin.  Maids  be- 
fore now  have  had  strange  lovers :  Oreithyia  was  mated 
to  the  North  Wind,  and  one  had  a  river  to  husband,  and 
one  a  swan — it  had  remained  for  her,  Hermia  Mary,  to 
discern  the  overshadowing  which  all  women  love  and 
dread  in  the  woody  scent  of  wet  flowers.    .    .    . 

To  this  strange  state  of  mind  was  she  now  brought, 
and  under  the  stress  and  fever  of  it  now  she  suffered  her- 
self to  be  dressed. 

It  grew  dusk  apace,  but  she  would  not  have  the  candles ; 
so  in  half  lights  the  shimmering  gown  was  slipped  over 
her  head,  the  fillet  and  the  scarf  put  in  place.  With 
vague  eyes  she  stood  up,  searching  the  misty  eve  as  it 
gathered  about  the  trees  in  the  garden,  while  the  maid 
hovered  over  her,  patting  and  adjusting,  peering  and 
judging,  turning  her  about  before  the  glass.  Com- 
pleted, adorned  to  the  last  hook  and  eye,  she  stood  up,  a 
picture  of  delicate,  serious  beauty,  a  bodily  perfection  of 
white  and  pale  rose,  which  her  black  robe  made  to  seem 
fragile  as  the  petals  of  a  flower,  informed,  however,  by 
a  mystery  not  of  the  world,  which  held  together  her 
sober  lips  and  filled  her  large  eyes  with  dark.  Nothing 
remained  to  be  done  to  her  but  to  fix  her  flowers :  let  Mrs. 
Moth  now  see  to  that. 

They  were  in  a  glass  of  water  on  the  table,  still  untied ; 
for  on  this  crowning  day,  when  all  must  be  put  to  the 


SHE  SEALS  HER  INDENTURES        255 

touch,  she  had  not  dared  yet  to  search  them.  The  sign 
must  be  there  to-day,  or — nay,  but  it  must  needs  be 
there.  And  yet  so  much  hung  upon  that  need  that  she 
had  not  dared  to  see.  And  as  Moth  was  busy  with  them 
now — a  pin  in  her  mouth,  and  eager  fingers  at  the  tie — 
she  felt  herself  grown  white  to  the  lips,  and  sick  with  the 
waiting  and  the  fear.    .    .    . 

"My  word  of  honour !  Oh,  miss ! "  It  was  over.  The 
blood  surged  back  and  beat  at  her  temples.  He  had 
spoken ;   the  sign  was  there  ! 

"Oh,  miss  !  What  next,  I  say !  Oh,  miss — "  Words 
failed  her,  but  she  held  up  a  folded  slip. 

"Give  it  me,  please,"  she  said  steadily,  not  looking  at 
it,  and  took,  opened,  and  read  it.  She  held  it  high  to 
get  the  light,  and  while  she  read,  Moth  fixed  and  was 
pinning  the  flowers. 

"T/iis  night,  and  for  ever.    Or  nevermore." 

That  was  the  whole  of  it.    It  steadied  her. 

She  freed  herself  from  Moth's  fingers.  "Take  them 
out,  Moth,  please.  Put  them  on  the  table,  and  leave  me. 
I  shan't  want  you  any  more."  Wondering,  the  maid 
unfastened  the  bunch,  and  while  her  mistress  stood  at 
gaze  in  mid-floor,  her  slip  of  paper  in  her  hand,  she 
returned  to  the  table  to  lay  it  down.  Suddenly  she 
gasped,  and  said  sharply,  "Lord  have  mercy  upon  us ! 
who's  that.?" 

Hermia  awoke  from  her  trance.  "Of  whom  do  you 
speak.''    What  do  you  mean.'"' 


256  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Moth  chattered  to  herself,  and  peered  out  of  the  win- 
dow. She  could  only  say,  "Down  there — in  the  gar- 
den— alone.  There's  some  one  there.  Oh,  miss,  you 
know  best,  but  I  tell  you  that  I'm  afraid." 

Hermia,  who  wore  a  fixed  face,  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  out.  The  garden  was  murky  in  the  dusk  of  a 
warm  April  day ;  yet  there  could  plainly  be  seen  the 
tall  and  motionless  figure  of  a  man,  cloaked  and  hatted, 
who  stood  alone  there  on  the  lawn.  For  a  few  moments 
she  watched  him,  trembling.  Then  she  motioned  the 
maid  to  go  away,  and  Moth  retired  without  a  word. 

Hermia  was  shaking  now,  and  panting,  but  she  was 
not  frightened.  What  unnerved  her  was  the  coming  of 
the  moment  of  choice,  expected,  and  with  certainty,  so 
long.  It  had  come.  The  Unknown  Lover  was  there, 
the  unknown  country  at  the  door,  the  journey  must 
begin.  She  stretched  out  her  left  hand  to  touch  the 
dressing-table,  and  it  fell  upon  the  softly  crisp  heads  of 
violets.  She  took  up  the  bunch  in  her  hand,  but  it  fell 
to  her  side.  "This  night,  and  for  ever.  Or  nevermore." 
She  knew  what  that  meant ;  that  it  was  for  her  to  choose. 
Trembling,  failing  at  the  knees,  breathless,  in  distress, 
with  a  crying  pain  at  her  heart,  she  watched  and  waited, 
while  the  room  grew  darker  and  darker,  and  the  garden 
below  could  hardly  be  seen.  She  looked  to  the  place 
where  she  had  seen  her  lover  stand,  searched  for  him, 
found  him,  lost  him  again,  until  her  eyes  felt  on  fire.  If 
she  wore  his  violets  that  night,  she  was  sealed  to  be  his. 


SHE  SEALS  HER  INDENTURES        257 

Would  she  do  it?  Dared  she?  Why,  was  she  mad !  She 
beHeved  that  she  would  be  worse  than  mad — impious — if 
she  disobeyed. 

A  knock  at  the  door  made  her  start  and  clap  a  hand  to 
her  side.     "Who's  there?" 

Harriet  opened  the  door.  "Dearest,  what's  this?  Why 
are  you  in  the  dark  ?  Are  you  not  ready  ?  Her  ladyship 
has  sent  me  for  you.  Lord  and  Lady  Crowland  are  here. 
They  say  that  Sir  Francis  has  been  arrested  and  taken 
to  the  Tower.     And  oh,  Hermy,  Lord  Morfa " 

"Go  away,  please,"  said  Hermia,  in  a  whisper.  "Go 
down  and  say  that  I'm  coming."  Harriet  pouted,  but 
obeyed. 

She  must  act  at  once;  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  Dis- 
obedience never  entered  her  head ;  all  her  hesitation  had 
been  that  of  a  swimmer  by  the  brink  of  the  flood.  She 
struck  a  match  and  lighted  two  of  her  candles  with  a 
steady  hand.  She  had  calmness  enough  at  command  to 
wait  while  the  wicks  flared,  sank,  and  catching  the  wax, 
rose  serenely  into  power.  Then  she  pinned  the  white 
violets  at  her  bosom,  and,  a  candlestick  in  each  hand, 
went  deliberately  to  her  window  and  stood  there. 

She  stayed  a  few  minutes  facing  the  dark ;  then  turned 
and  went  downstairs.  She  had  scaled  her  indentures, 
was  now  bound  apprentice.  And  as  she  went  down  the 
broad  stair  her  heart  seemed  to  fill  her  whole  body,  even 
to  drowning  her.  , 


CHAPTER  XXV 


IN  WHICH  HER  CALL  COMES 


A  PRIEST  newly  from  his  altar-rites,  with  the  dew  of 
-^^^  sacrifice  still  upon  him,  set  down  in  the  midst  of  some 
squalid  brawl — contested  election,  city  meeting — might 
have  the  feelings  of  consternation  and  dismay  which 
possessed  Miss  Chambre,  fresh  from  her  window  and  her 
dark,  seethed  in  the  great  Morf  a  banquet.  And  he  would 
have  the  same  consolation  of  hugging  to  his  heart  the 
memory  and  the  promise  known  fully  to  him  alone.  If 
his  eyes  were  wide  and  very  bright,  if  his  lips  were  close, 
if  his  tongue  refused  him,  it  were  no  wonder.  In  his 
eyes  the  vision  would  stay ;  mystery  would  lock  his 
mouth  and  keep  his  tongue  from  declaring  vain  things. 
The  apprentice  in  love  went  through  the  ceremony  of 
dining  in  the  company  of  forty  persons,  all  fashionable 
and  all  Whigs ;  she  gave  her  arm  to  Sir  George  Coigne, 
smiled  on  Lord  Sandgate,  curtseyed  to  a  prince  of  the 
blood,  tasted  soup,  sipped  wine,  answered  questions, 
seemed,  indeed,  to  be  present,  and  looked  excessively 
beautiful — though  she  was  not  very  responsive.  She 
was  living  elsewhere,  at  a  fever-rate,  in  a  shrouded  gar- 
den, in  still  night  air — or  she  was  swept  along  a  flooded 
stream,  in  water  which  was  warm  and  sweet — in  which 


HER  CALL  COMES  259 

her  limbs  failed  her,  in  which,  drifting,  she  drowned. 
Swift,  smooth,  irresistible  motion ;  she  was  conscious 
mostly  of  that.  Her  hands  were  folded,  her  eyes  closed, 
she  felt ;  she  knew  not  whither  she  went,  and  cared 
nothing.  For  above  and  about  her,  fanning  her  brows, 
blowing  upon  her  eyelids,  was  a  form  whose  magnitude 
she  could  not  guess — and  "Come.  I  have  chosen  thee ; 
come.  Thou  art  mine,  and  I  am  thine — now  and  for 
ever,"  was  the  music  in  her  ears. 

What,  then,  if  a  royal  personage  should  enunciate  laws 
of  nature  at  the  top  of  his  voice  and  the  table?  She 
would  not  hear  them.  "I  tell  you,  ma'am,  the  country 
was  never  more  respected  abroad.  Our  good  old  King, 
secure  in  the  sanctities  of  family  life  .  .  .  Avhat,''" 
"My  brother  Kent,  ma'am,  may  be  trusted  to  fulfil  his 
duty,  I  hope.  Church  and  King  is  the  cry  .  .  .  the 
nobility  staunch,  the  Commons  ..."  Oh,  crackling 
of  thorns  under  pots !  What  had  she  to  do  with  Lords 
and  Commons.-^ 

Mr.  Aloysius  Banks,  with  a  crowing  voice,  might  have 
been  heard  blaring  loyalty  over  the  board.  "What  said 
Mr.  Burke,  sir.?  What  said  that  true  patriot.?  'We  fear 
God — we  look  with  awe  to  kings — with  affection  to 
Parliaments — with  duty  to  magistrates — with  reverence 
to  priests — and  with  respect  to  the  nobility.'  "  That 
should  have  been  gracious  to  a  royal  car,  and  likely  was ; 
and  it  should  have  been  interesting  to  watch  Lady 
Morfa's  nodding  head  receive  it.     "With  awe  to  kings" 


260  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

— she  bowed  low ;  "with  reverence  to  priests" — she  raised 
her  eyebrows  as  her  head  made  the  concession ;  "and 
with  respect  to  the  nobihty" — she  tossed  her  feathers 
upwards  before  her  final  inclination.  It  was  very  right 
that  these  should  be  the  opinions  of  the  Burkes  and 
Bankses  of  this  world,  but  almost  an  affectation  of  hu- 
mility for  a  Lady  Morf a  to  agree  with  them. 

Lord  Sandgate  capped  Mr.  Banks  with  Tom  Paine,  for 
the  benefit  of  his  beauteous  neighbour.  "The  duty  of 
man  ...  a  wilderness  of  turnpikes,  through  which  he 
is  to  pass  by  tickets ! "  You  are  a  Painite,  I  know,  Miss 
Chambre.  Was  she.'*  She  smiled  upon  him  and  allowed 
him  to  believe  it.  Had  there  really  been  a  time  when 
she  had  been  this  or  that.'^  Lord  Sandgate  talked  of  Sir 
Francis,  whom  he  had  that  morning  escorted  to  the 
Tower,  at  the  head  of  some  thousands  of  frantic  persons. 
"You  would  have  said  it  was  a  Roman  triumph.  Miss 
Chambre;  and  I'm  inclined  to  think  that  it  was.  At 
least  the  Government  can  only  afford  a  {cw  more  such 
victories.  Bob  Ranald  came  back  rubbing  his  hands. 
He  says  nothing  .could  have  been  better.  If  privilege 
strains  so  far,  it  will  snap — and  suicide  is  better 
than  assassination ;  more  decent  at  least."  And  so  he 
ambled  on,  the  contented  nobleman,  and  she  said  Yes, 
or  No. 

Upon  her  other  side  were  Sir  George  and  his  troubles. 
He  felt  fatally  prominent,  and  feared  to  commit  him- 
self  deeper   with    every   breath.      He   knew   what   that 


HER  CALL  COMES  261 

offer  of  liis  arm  was  to  imply,  and  what  the  whole 
festival  implied.  He  sat  at  meat  a  marked  man.  From 
the  crimson  flock  walls,  out  of  their  gilt  cornices, 
from  beneath  their  coronets,  the  ranked  Carj^ls  in 
their  purple  and  ermine,  their  shimmering  satin,  in  their 
full  wigs,  lace  collars,  ruffs,  steel  corselets,  peak-bearded, 
love-locked,  ample-bosomed,  fiercely  stayed  and  hooped, 
as  the  case  might  be — a  double  row  of  Carylls 
watched  him  out  of  level,  unfaltering  eyes.  He  was 
not  an  imaginative  man,  but  he  fairly  cowered.  God 
in  heaven,  what  was  he  doing,  this  free-dealing,  friendly 
baronet  of  Plashetts.'^  Was  he  a  man?  Why  did  he 
not  break  away,  and  seek  out  his  love?  His  heart 
was  out  of  the  room  in  the  thin  hands  of  a  lady — a 
brown-ej'ed  slip  of  a  girl,  with  a  piteous  mouth  and 
courteous  ways.  Oh,  he  should  be  by  her  side,  braving 
the  world — but  here  he  was,  drinking  brown  sherry  and 
sajung,  "Yes,  sir,"  to  a  roj^al  duke.  Out  upon  him, 
recreant!  "Hermy,  you  stand  by  us — eh?  This  is  hot 
work,  you  know.  I'm  all  for  peace  and  quiet,  you  know — 
that's  how  a  man  gets  through  his  day's  round.  By 
heaven,  I  never  bargained  for  this."  She  was  gentle  with 
him,  poor  creature  though  she  saw  him. 

"You  will  see  Harriet  in  the  ball-room.  She  is  to  be 
there,  I  know." 

"Watched,  though !  Tied  hand  and  foot !  Gad,  what 
a  life  for  a  lovely — I  say,  Hermy,  what  shall  we  do  for 
her?     This  is  awful ! " 


262  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Was  this  a  man  ?  Oh,  if  he  only  knew,  if  he  only  knew 
where,  with  whom  she  stood  now !  "Really,  Cousin 
George,"  she  broke  out,  "I  cannot  understand  you. 
You  are  your  own  master,  dependent  upon  nobody, 
and  yet —  You  have  but  to  ask  her — surely  you  see 
that?" 

He  shook  his  head  desperately.  "Can't  have  a  fuss, 
you  know,  Hermy.  Never  do.  Aunt  Morfa's  head  of 
the  family — our  family  as  well  as  yours — not  actually, 
of  course,  because  Uncle  Badlesmere's  the  man ;  but  she's 
older  than  him  by  a  deal,  and  she's  always  had  her  own 
way.  No,  no — can't  break  with  the  family  if  we  can 
avoid  it.  Why,  bless  my  soul,  my  mother  was  the 
youngest  of  eleven  ! " 

*'You  talk  as  if  we  were  all  children  together." 

"Well,  there's  that,  of  course — I  see  your  point.  But 
the  family — no,  no.  We  must  think  of  something  better 
than  a  fuss." 

"A  fuss !  Why  should  there  be  a  fuss  ?^*  She  simply 
had  no  more  to  say.  Sir  George  sighed,  and  went  back 
to  his  dinner. 

"Where's  Morfa.'"'  Lord  Sandgate  enquired.  "Wasn't 
he  to  be  here.'"'  He  was  told  the  facts  about  Lord 
Morfa. 

"My  lady  won't  like  that." 

"She  doesn't.  One  can  see  that  she  doesn't."  One 
could. 

"I  think  that  Morfa  should  be  pulled  up — indeed,  I  do. 


HER  CALL  COMES  263 

He's  wild — he's  In  a  wild  set.  He's  a  fool,  saving  your 
respect,  but  he's  not  bad  all  through.  One  of  these  days 
he'll  be  caught  hold  of — by  a  woman.  And  that'll  save 
him."  She  thought  of  Harriet ;  and  as  the  ladies  rose 
and  left  the  dining-room  that  thought  went  with  her, 
mingled  with  her  own.  Harriet,  too,  might  have  her 
wondrous  secret  life ;  on  Harriet's  pale  lips,  on  Harriet's 
brown  eyes  the  mystery  might  have  been  laid.  Entering 
the  ball-room,  last  of  a  long  procession,  the  first  persons 
she  saw  were  Lord  Morf  a,  making  his  bow  to  the  Duchess 
of  Wentsland,  and  Harriet  Moon,  flushed  and  downcast, 
standing  by  her  patroness.  Had  these  two  been  together 
long.f*    Was  this  why  he  had  refused  to  dine.'' 

Among  the  gentlemen,  where  Archdeacon  Caryll  had 
taken  the  host's  chair  and  was  beaming,  speechless  and 
helpless,  upon  his  rapidly  intoxicating  Prince,  a  painful 
ordeal  was  in  process.  Sir  George  Coigne  had  been 
called  up  to  the  right  of  the  great  personage,  and  was 
receiving  congratulations  upon  his  approaching  mar- 
riage. The  lady  was  approved,  in  terms  more  warm 
than  agreeable.  "His  Royal  Highness's  expressions," 
said  the  Archdeacon  afterwards,  "were  not  lacking  in 
ardour.  They  testified  to  the — ah  ! — vivacity  of  his  sen- 
sibihties;  but  they  did  not,  my  dear  Jane,  show  that 
delicacy  of  touch  for  which  the  heir  to  the  throne  is  so 
deservedly  beloved."  Sir  George  owned  to  an  intimate 
friend  that  he  had  never  felt  worse  in  his  life.  "Damn 
it,  those  princes,  you  know — what  ?    They  give  a  twist — 


264  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

eh?  Must  have  mustard  with  their  mutton — cayenne  on 
their  buttered  toast.  It's  all  very  well,  my  dear  Clare, 
but  that  sort  of  thing  sickens  a  man.  I  shall  bolt  for 
Gretna— I'll  be  shot  if  I  don't." 

"Will  the  lady  go,  George?" 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Sir  George,  wringing  at  his 
nail,  "and  there's  the  racket:  family  racket,  county 
racket.  Too  much  to  ask  of  any  girl — eh?  That's  what 
I  feel  about  it." 

"Depends  on  her,  of  course,"  says  the  youthful  Clare, 
prematurely  wise.  "I  should  have  said  that  Miss 
Hermia " 

"Oh,  bless  you,  she'd  go — like  a  bird.  Why,  she's  said 
so  !  But  not  with  me,  my  boy  ;  not  with  me."  He  spoke 
in  a  whisper,  behind  his  wine-glass. 

"Oil !  Beg  pardon,"  said  his  friend.  "I  thought  she 
was  the  lady." 

"So  you  might,  God  knows!  But  if  she  ain't?  Not 
many  girls  would  face  what  my  Cousin  Hermy  would — 
and  think  nothing  of.  Nor  should  she  be  asked,  in  my 
opinion.     But  I'm  talking !" 

"Not  at  all,  George,  not  at  all,"  his  friend  assured 
him.  "Naturally,  it  goes  no  further." 
•  "God  Save  the  King"  in  the  great  hall  made  the  gentle- 
men move.  "God  bless  me,  have  we  sat  so  late?  That's 
my  brother,"  cried  the  great  man.  He  was  got  to 
his  feet,  and  swayed  out  into  the  gallery  to  meet  his 
Prince. 


HER  CALL  COjMES  265 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  the  Prince  came — in  semi- 
state.  Six  horses  drew  him  instead  of  twelve,  and  it  is 
possible  that  there  was  rather  less  hooting  because  there 
were  rather  fewer  sightseers ;  but  there  was  enough  to 
render  very  necessary  the  services  of  a  brass  band  which, 
for  drowning  purposes,  had  been  ambushed  in  the 
court.  When  he  entered  the  hall,  with  Lords  Hertford, 
Conyngham,  and  Moira,  with  jNIr.  Sheridan  and 
others  of  his  friends,  he  was  flushed  and  nois}',  but  not 
tipsy. 

The  Morfa  clan  and  the  Badlesmere  clan  received  him 
in  the  inner  hall,  at  the  foot  of  the  great  stair.  Her  lady- 
ship in  Botetort  emeralds  and  Caryll  diamonds,  Morfa 
with  his  garter — these  were  in  the  centre  of  the  galax}' ; 
and  about  them  the  tributary  lights,  a  nameless,  high- 
nosed  herd  of  Gells,  Coignes,  Barwises,  Lukyns,  Bote- 
torts,  Carylls,  and  heaven  knows  who.  Head  above  most 
of  these  there  stood  a  troubled,  rosy-faced  baronet  from 
Bucks — and  beside  her  ladyship's  self  the  grave,  glow- 
ing, beautiful  Hermia  Mary,  hot  and  deep  as  a  ruby  in 
her  black  and  silver  setting,  with  her  knot  of  white  violets 
rising  and  falling  with  her  breast.  So  seriously  slie 
looked  at  her  advancing  Prince,  you  might  have  thought 
her  his  judge;  so  scornfully  curved  her  lip  you  must 
have  known  it.  What  to  her  was  the  advance  and  boister- 
ous cordiality  of  this  overflowing  personage,  this  young 
Silenus  of  creased  eye-sockets,  and  of  the  colour  of  pink 
paint?     Was  she  to  curtsey,  kiss  the  hand  of  this  be- 


266  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

ribboned,  fuddled,  bloated  man  of  forty — and  her  heart, 
her  will  and  soul  out  there  in  the  cedared  garden,  quiver- 
ing under  the  calm  eyes  of  a  god? 

But  here  he  was,  exceedingly  disposed  to  make  himself 
agreeable.  "By  God,  Roddy,  I'm  late,"  he  declared. 
"  'Twas  Moira  kept  me,  I'll  swear.  Madam,"  and  he 
looked  heavily  at  Lady  Morf  a,  "you  must  blame  the  wits, 
not  me." 

"Impossible,  sir,  to  blame  one  without  the  other,"  said 
her  ladyship,  whose  curtsey  was  a  thing  to  ponder:  the 
bared  edge  of  a  razor  would  not  have  been  finelier  avoided 
by  a  naked  foot.  But  he  was  determined  to  be  pleased, 
and  sure  that  he  pleased.  "Ha,  Mr.  Archdeacon — ha, 
Badlesmere,  this  is  a  meeting  of  friends — all  Whigs 
here,  hey .''  We  must  have  you  at  Carlton  House,  Badles- 
mere— we  don't  see  enough  of  you.  Lady  Conyngham 
asked  after  you  the  other  night;  she  did,  upon  my  soul. 
Lady  Barwise,  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you — very  glad, 
indeed."  He  shook  hands  with  Sir  George  and  con- 
gratulated him  effusively ;  begged  to  be  presented,  and 
when  he  saw  the  fair  betrothed  remembered  her  at  once. 
"By  my  honour,  the  lovely  Jacobin!  Why,  why,  Miss 
Chambre  and  I  are  old  cronies — we  met — let  me  see — 
don't  tell  me  that  you  forget  it,  young  lady.  And  I've 
heard  of  you — where  now?  INIoira,  what  was  that  I 
heard  of  Miss  Chambre?  Devilish  good  thing  that  was — 

Oho !   I  have  it.     Brook  Street ! — cleaving  to  the By 

heaven,  Coigne,  you  must  keep  your  wife  out  of  Brook 


HER  CALL  COMES  267 

Street.     No  dealings  with  that  firm — hey?"     And  on  he 
rattled,  perfectly  satisfied  with  himself. 

She  made  no  answer,  but  leaned  her  cheek  and  let  him 
touch  it ;  she  curtseyed  deeply,  and  when  he  claimed  her 
for  a  quadrille,  did  her  part  with  a  stiff  recollectedness 
which  piqued  him  not  a  little.  She  was  moving,  in  fact, 
as  one  in  a  dream;  and  so  she  went  through  her  duties 
of  the  night — dancing  with  this  man  and  that:  Tom 
Rodono,  Lord  Edlogan,  the  Honourable  John,  and  the 
Honourable  James,  it  mattered  not  a  bit.  In  the  midst 
of  the  blare  and  bustle,  the  loud  voices  of  great  men,  the 
whisperings  of  men  aspiring,  and  the  bowings  of  those 
whose  glory  was  to  creep — catching  sight  of  Harriet 
Moon  at  a  window,  and  struck  to  contrition  by  her  woe- 
begone look,  she  left  her  partner  with  an  excuse,  and 
went  directly  to  her.  Harriet  saw  her  coming,  and 
seemed  to  shrink.  Hermia  did  not  hesitate.  "Harriet," 
she  said,  "have  you  anything  to  say  to  me?" 

The  brown   eyes   dilated,   the   pretty   mouth   faltered. 
"Anything  to  say?    Oh,  Hermy,  why  should  I?" 
"You  are  the  best  judge.     Is  all  well  with  you.^*" 
"Yes,  yes,  very  well.     Why  do  you  ask  me?" 
"I  feel  anxious.     I  can  hardly  say  why — but  I  have 
thought  much  of  you.     Will  you  not  confide  in  me?     I 
am  your  friend." 

Harriet  was  moved,  and  seemed  on  the  point  of  speak- 
ing— but  she  checked  herself  and  looked  down.  "I  think 
I  have  told  you  all,"  she  said. 


268  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"All,  Harriet?"  • 

"Hush!"  said  Harriet,  "Somebody  is  coming  for 
you."     A  young  man  came  up. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Cliambre ;  Lady  Morfa  sent 
me  to  tell  you  that  she  is  going  down  to  supper.  His 
Royal  Highness  has  begged  that  you  will  honour  his 
table." 

"I'll  come,"  said  Hermia,  and  went  away  with  him. 

The  inexpressible  twenty  minutes  which  followed  may 
be  passed  over.  If  she  had  been  in  possession  of  herself, 
able  to  contrast  her  real  and  her  unreal  existence,  the 
world  in  which  her  soul  walked  and  that  in  which  her 
body  sat,  it  must  have  made  her  laugh  aloud.  She 
formed  one  of  a  table  of  six  persons :  the  brother  princes, 
who  talked  loudly,  and  tripped  up  each  other's  stories; 
Sir  George  Coigne,  most  miserable  of  men,  searching  the 
supper-room  with  strained  eyes  for  his  Harriet,  who  was 
not  there ;  Lady  Morfa,  hardly  at  pains  to  conceal  her 
contempt  for  the  society  she  was  in ;  Lady  Badlesmere, 
steadily  eating  and  drinking ;  and  she,  this  secretly  be- 
witched, secretly  rapt,  spell-bound,  beautiful  girl:  was 
there  ever  such  a  supper-table?  It  was  interrupted  by 
an  equerry,  whose  message,  testily  heard,  proved  urgent. 
The  Prince  swore  heartily,  but  nevertheless  got  up  and 
took  his  leave.  The  whole  company  rose,  and  with  "God 
Save  the  King"  and  a  prodigious  pawing  and  scraping 
of  horses.  His  Royal  Highness  was  got  on  to  the  road. 
By  that  time  Hermia  had  escaped. 


HER  CALL  COMES  269 

She  had  observed  that  Lord  Morfa,  against  all  eti- 
quette, had  not  been  in  attendance  during  supper,  and 
that  Harriet  was  not  to  be  seen  either.  Couple  this  with 
his  absence  from  dinner  and  presence  in  the  drawing- 
room — throw  in  the  girl's  abject  look  and  refusal  to 
speak — all  her  suspicions  came  back:  Harriet  must  be 
found.  She  passed  through  the  almost  empty  ball-room, 
tried  the  card-room,  the  yellow  saloon,  oval  drawing- 
room,  the  library.  Here  she  was  assailed  by  a  draught 
of  fresh,  pure  air  which  blew  in  from  an  open  window. 
Beyond  that  lay  the  balcony — ^beyond  that  the  garden, 
where  her  soul  walked.  Her  own  affairs  possessed  her 
heart  and  mind,  and,  jealous  of  rivalry,  usurped  the  little 
corner  in  each  where  Harriet  still  held  out. 

She  went  out  through  the  window,  and  immediately,  as 
it  seemed,  the  blaring  world  of  princes  and  crackling 
thorns  was  shut  out.  The  balcony  was  empty,  the  night 
was  before  her,  the  enchanted  garden,  and  the  garden 
gods.  Her  own  thoughts  resumed  their  realm,  her  own 
body  went  prone  to  receive  back  her  soul.  She  stood 
wonderingly,  face  to  face  with  the  night. 

Forthright  she  looked  into  the  velvet  dark,  with  beating 
heart  and  parted  lips,  living  at  ease  in  the  enormous 
peace  of  the  silence.  After  the  glare,  the  glitter,  and 
the  brawl,  the  lapping  and  supping,  the  crunching  of 
ortolans'  bones,  the  leering  looks  and  bragging  tongues 
— here,  deeply  in  the  violet  night,  beyond  the  trees,  seen 
only  by  the  stars,  the  unknown  lover  abode,  he  who  spoke 


270  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

in  the  fragrance  of  flowers,  and  was  the  veiled  Eros,  the 
hidden  spouse.  She,  Psyche,  had  given  her  pledge — and 
he  might  be  here — he  must  be  here — to  claim  it  of  her. 

She  was  highly  excited,  but  not  afraid.  Her  breath 
was  quick,  but  her  eyes  undimmed,  her  gaze  constant  and 
untroubled.  She  knew  that  she  was  not  alone.  He  was 
there — and  she  sure  of  it.  She  stood  and  waited,  holding 
her  breath,  holding  the  ledge  of  the  balcony  with  her 
two  hands.  She  stood  for  some  moments  thus,  hearing 
the  wild  music  of  her  heart.  And  then,  out  of  the  en- 
vironing night  she  heard  herself  called — whether  from 
near  or  far  she  did  not  know ;  she  heard  her  own  name, 
called  twice — "Hermia,  Hermia  Mary." 

She  answered — not  moving  from  her  place — "I  am 
here." 

Now  the  speaker  was  nearer — but  not  to  be  seen.  "You 
have  decided.-^    You  have  chosen.''" 

"Yes,  yes.    You  know  it." 

"I  may  serve  you  still.''" 

"You  know  it." 

"I  would  serve  you  for  ever?" 

"I  am  not  worthy." 

"I  have  served  you  for  a  year." 

"Yes." 

"You  will  hear  me?    At  dawn.?" 

"Yes,  I  will  come." 

"I  shall  be  here  at  dawn." 

"I  will  come  to  you." 


HER  CALL  COMES  271 

*'You  accept  my  flowers?" 
"You  know  that  I  have  accepted  them.'* 
"Stay  no  longer  now.     Good-night." 
"Good-night." 

She  knew  that  he  was  gone;    but  she  stayed  where  she 
was,  motionless,  possessed,  and  held. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

WHICH   IS  OF   PSYCHE   IN  THE   GARDEN 

T  T  would  not  be  an  easy  thing  to  describe  the  wave  of 
-■■  high  exaltation  which  carried  Miss  Hermia  Mary  to  her 
bed  and  prevented  her  from  sleeping  in  it.  One  might, 
perhaps,  more  surely  gauge  the  consternation  of  a  break- 
fast-table in  far  Kilbride  when  it  received  as  a  bolt  from 
the  blue  heaven  the  letter  whose  writing  occupied  a  good 
part  of  her  vigil.  For  she  slept  not  at  all,  but  stood  for 
near  an  hour  at  her  window,  drinking,  as  it  were,  the 
wonders  of  the  night,  lay  wide-eyed  upon  her  bed  for 
another,  in  a  state  of  warm,  still  acquiescence  in  her  fixed 
destiny,  and  after  that  composed  the  extraordinary  letter 
from  which  I  am  about  to  quote. 

"It  is  right  that  I  should  tell  you  first  of  all  the  world, 
my  dearest  friend,  that  my  affections  are  deeply  engaged, 
even  while,  in  the  same  breath,  I  have  to  confess  that  I 
do  not  certainly  know  the  name  of  the  object  of  them, 
and  am  not  certainly  aware  that  I  have  ever  seen  him. 
What  I  may  guess,  or  what  I  may  believe,  it  would  not 
be  proper  to  say ;  in  a  very  few  hours  I  shall  know  aU — 
in  the  meantime,  I  know  enough  to  assure  you  of  this. 

"I  cannot  tell  what  you  will  think  of  me,  but  I  do  be- 
lieve that  you  will  understand  what  I  cannot  explain, 


PSYCHE  IN  THE  GARDEN  273 

and  that  your  love  will  enable  you  to  see  as  reasonable 
what  might  appear  incredible.  I  remember  when  we  used 
to  have  our  twilight  talks  at  dear  Kilbride,  we  often 
wondered  together  what  my  portion  would  be.  We  talked 
of  husbands — never  of  lovers ;  I  don't  know  why.  I  used 
to  say  that  I  should  marry  a  soldier  like  dear  papa — and 
now — oh,  it  is  most  wonderful ! 

"Mary,  I  have  been  silently,  mysteriously,  and  con- 
stantly loved  since  the  twenty-second  of  June  last  year. 
That  has  been  proved  to  me  by  such  a  service  as  no  girl 
can  ever  have  had  before;  in  such  a  way  and  by  such 
means  that  it  is  impossible  to  doubt  either  the  sincerity 
of  my  lover  or  the  marvellous  delicacy  of  his  declaration. 
He  told  me,  however,  but  two  hours  ago,  that  he  had  loved 
me  for  a  year — that  is,  for  I  am  sure  he  is  incapable  of 
the  smallest  deviation  from  the  truth,  from  the  fifteenth 
of  April.  That  might  give  me  a  clue  to  his  person — and 
I  do  think  that  it  does ;  but  in  such  a  matter  you  will  not 
ask  me  for  surmises,  but  for  certainties.  IVIy  dearest, 
I  tell  you  two.  The  first  is  that  I  am  beloved ;  the  second, 
Mary,  that  I  love.  I  know  now  that  I  have  loved  him, 
or  his  violets — for  he  sent  me  white  violets,  every  day, 
at  the  same  hour — since  October,  when  darling  Dick 
died.  What  a  proof  of  sensibility  In  my  lover,  that  on 
the  day  when  the  dreadful  news  came  my  violets  ceased, 
and  were  withheld  until  I  returned  to  town  In  October. 
When  I  missed  them,  Mary,  I  was  troubled  without 
knowing  why ;  I  could  not  understand  why  they  should 


274  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

mean  so  much  to  me.  But  in  October,  when  they  were 
renewed — when  I  found  them  here  awaiting  my  return — 
and  when  I  shed  tears — happy  tears  of  pride  and  grati- 
tude— then,  indeed,  I  understood  well  enough  what  had 
befallen  me.  I  took  my  violets  to  my  heart,  I  kissed 
them  often,  they  never  left  me ;  I  could  not  falter  after 
that.  I  did  it  in  spite  of  myself,  and  they  became  a 
part  of  myself,  indispensable.  No,  indeed,  I  could  not 
falter.  Nor  shall  I  falter  when,  in  a  few  hours'  time, 
as  soon  as  the  light  begins,  I  go  out  of  this  house  to 
meet  my  lover  face  to  face — and  my  light  begins ! 

"He  spoke  to  me  last  night  out  of  the  dark.  I  was  on 
the  balcony ;  for  I  knew  he  was  in  the  garden  below,  and 
went  to  him,  and  waited  for  him  to  speak.  He  called  me 
by  my  name,  twice.  'Hermia,'  he  called,  and  then  'Hermia 
Mary,'  as  if  he  knew  that  they  who  loved  me  best  al- 
ways called  me  so.  I  told  him  that  there  I  was — taking 
all  things  for  granted  in  a  simple  way  which,  I  am  con- 
vinced, could  never  be  possible  for  any  two  persons  who 
had  not  been  drawn  together  by  fate.  He  asked  me  to 
come  to  him  in  the  morning,  at  dawn — and  the  dawn  is 
just  at  hand,  Mary ;  I  can  see  the  grey  light  in  the  sky; 
and  at  the  first  flush  I  go.  When  you  receive  this,  you 
will  pray  for  me — or,  no ;  you  will  give  thanks  to  God 
that  your  Hermia  Mary  is  happy.  Happy  I  shall  as- 
suredly be — for  I  am  extraordinarily  happy  now — and 
proud  to  suffer  whatsoever  may  be  in  store  for  me.  1 
may  be  far  from  here — for  if  he  calls  me,  I  shall  follow 


PSYCHE  IN  THE  GARDEN  275 

him ;  or  perhaps  I  shall  be  locked  up  again,  as  I  was, 
you  remember,  when  grandmamma  disapproved  of  me. 
I  may  have  to  endure  even  worse — I  may  estrange  all 
my  friends  (except  you!),  make  a  scandal — I  don't 
know.  But  I  know  this  very  well,  that  I  shall  never  fal- 
ter now,  and  never  look  back. 

"Good-bye,  Mary,  my  dearest  friend!  I  wish  that  I 
might  go  out  to  my  happy  destiny  strengthened  by 
your  kiss ;  but  do  you  pray  for  me  always,  as  I  do  for 
you,  and  I  don't  feel  alone.  .  .  .  It  is  almost  light,  and 
I  have  not  been  to  bed  at  all.  How  could  I  sleep  ?  How 
can  I  rest.'*  What  need  have  1?  Good-bye;  the  dawn  is 
here! 

"Your  own  Hermia  Maey." 

Having  sealed  this  letter,  she  made  her  preparations ; 
rinsed  her  face  and  hands  in  cold  water,  put  order  to 
her  hair,  dressed  herself,  pinned  her  violets  upon  her, 
covered  herself  with  a  cloak  and  hood,  and  went  quietly, 
but  without  any  carefulness  to  be  quiet,  along  the 
drowsy  corridors,  down  the  ghostly  stair,  through  echo- 
ing halls  and  muffled  saloons  to  the  garden-door.  This 
she  must  unbolt  and  unbar  with  difficulty.  It  was  about 
five  o'clock  upon  a  still  morning. 

The  shadowless  grey  light  saluted  her,  the  cool  dawn 
air  fanned  her  cheeks,  and  playing  upon  her,  caused  her 
to  shiver  and  draw  closer  the  cloak  she  had  on.  She  shut 
the  door  behind  her,  not  as  yet  daring  to  look  for  whom 


276  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

she  knew  to  be  awaiting  her.  So  also,  with  lowered  eyes, 
she  went  down  the  steps  which  gave  to  the  terrace, 
crossed  that,  and  descended  the  next  flight,  stood  upon 
the  grass,  and  waited  there,  not  yet  lifting  her  head, 
holding  still  the  hems  of  her  cloak  close  about  her  with 
a  quiet  hand.  Her  hesitation  was  momentary.  She 
lifted  a  burning  face,  she  looked  forward  with  misty 
eyes.  She  saw  a  tall  figure  motionless  in  the  shadow,  by 
the  cedar,  and  went  staidly  down  to  meet  it. 

He  was  cloaked  and  booted,  but  his  head  was  bare.  He 
watched  her  come,  watched  intently ;  his  lips  were  pressed 
together,  his  eyelids  did  not  blink.  He  was  like  a  carven 
man  whose  regard  is  fixed  as  the  sculptor  willed  it,  whose 
thoughts  are  as  unfathomable  as  you  please  because  they 
must  be  your  own.  He  did  not  move  forward  to  meet 
her,  nor  bow  his  head,  nor  show  any  sign  at  all.  And 
when  she  stood,  as  now  she  did,  at  some  three  paces 
away,  her  eyes  were  as  firm  and  unwinking  as  his  own. 
So  each  gazed  at  the  other  for  some  seconds — and  then 
she  gave  up  the  strife,  and  looked  down. 

He  spoke  to  her.  "You  have  chosen  to  come — knowing 
what  you  knew.^*" 

Her  voice  Avas  very  low.     "I  thought  it  your  right." 

"Right !"  he  said,  "I  have  no  rights  but  what  I  have 
had  from  you.  And  you  have  dared  to  give  me  another. 
You  have  dared,  because  you  dare  all  things." 

"No,"  she  answered,  "not  all  things.  I  must  tell  you — 
that  I  cannot  receive  your  gifts — now  that  I  know  that 


PSYCHE  IN  THE  GARDEN  277 

they  are  yours — without  confessing  to  you  that  I  am 
grateful.  I  dare  not  do  that.  That  is  why  I  have 
come." 

"I   asked  you,"   he   said,   "but  I  hardly   hoped " 

Then  she  looked  at  him  again,  for  a  moment — and  pres- 
ently spoke  as  if  to  herself. 

"You  must  have  known  that  I  would  come." 

He  seemed  to  have  no  answer  ready,  but  stood  as  one 
whose  mind  is  whirled  about. 

"I  put  everything  to  the  touch — ^to  win  or  lose — it  was 
forced  upon  me.  I  could  not  last — could  not  endure.  It 
was  the  act  of  a  coward,  of  a  desperate  man — I  thought 
that  you  must  know  by  now — the  tnith  was  blazed  on  ray 
face.  I  thought  all  London  knew  that  the  clown  had 
hfted  up  his  eyes  to  the  highest.     And  so  I  reward  your 

gracious    act — your    act    of    pure    nobility "    he 

stopped  with  a  cry  of  despair,  and  she  made  as  if  she 
would  go  to  him. 

"Don't  accuse  yourself,  I  beg  of  you — for  I  may  not 
be  able  to  tell  you  what  I  ought." 

He  had  recovered  his  self-possession,  and  spoke  quietly. 
"I  will  ask  you  to  listen  to  me.  It  is  all  I  have  the  right 
to  ask'  you.  I  have  loved  you  for  a  year  since  yesterday 
— since  that  day  when,  of  your  own  generosity,  you 
came  to  my  poor  house — where  I  was — disgraced — and 
approved  and  gave  me  back  my  manhood.  From  that 
moment  of  that  day  I  was  yours  altogether ;  and  I  own 
to  you  that  the  fact  in  me  was  so  proud  and  glorious  a 


278  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

fact  that  I  did  not  strive  against  it.  No,  but  I  set  my- 
self to  work  to  be  worthy  so  splendid  a  state.  What 
harm  could  I  do  you — if  you  knew  nothing  of  it?  Who 
could  deny  me  the  right  to  bend  my  knee  ?  I  tell  you  now 
that  I  rode  about  my  business — mine,  of  all  businesses  in 
the  world ! — like  a  knight  of  old  time  shining  in  the  sun. 
Had  I  stayed  thus,  could  I  have  blamed  myself?  or  could 
you  blame  me?" 

Her  lips  moved  to  answer  him,  but  he  stayed  her. 
"Not  yet — not  yet." 

He  continued:  "I  made  no  declaration  then — and  had 
I  kept  my  senses  I  should  never  have  made  one.  I  know 
that  I  fell  away,  was  false  to  the  glory  of  my  beginning. 
But  madness  seized  me.  You  met  me — you  knew  me 
again — you  bowed  your  head — and,  God  help  me !  I  lost 
mine." 

Again  she  stopped  him.     "You  have  no  need  to  excuse 

yourself — pray "    He  held  up  his  hand:  "I  beseech 

you!"  and  she  begged  his  pardon. 

"I  do  believe  that  when  I  made  my  sign — which  meant 
what  wickedness,  what  arrogance,  what  gross  presump- 
tion you  will — it  was  in  such  a  way  that  you  could  not 
be  compromised,  could  not  feel  yourself  bound  in  any 
kind  of  honour  to  consider  who  it  was  who  so  declared 
himself.  You  were  free  then,  as  you  are  now,  to  bestow 
your  generosity  as  you  please.  For  even  now  I  ask  no 
more  of  you  than  leave  to  tell  you  the  truth.  I  do  ask 
that — I  must  ask  that.    Will  you  let  me  tell  you?" 


PSYCHE  IN  THE  GARDEN  279 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  whispering. 

"The  truth  is  this,"  he  said,  "that  I  love  you  and  am 
your  man.  And  now  I  am  content  to  go,  and  never  see 
you  again." 

He  stood  waiting,  having  dared  his  uttermost.  The 
girl's  dignity  w^rapped  her  closely.  "I  do  not  ask  you 
to  go.  You  must  do  as  seems  to  you  best — as  seems 
right  to  you.    I  trust  j^ou  entirely." 

"You  must  not  trust  me,"  he  said,  "with  such  an  answer 
as  that.  I  am  a  man,  and  I  love  you.  Do  you  hear  me 
say  that,  and  then  give  me  leave  to  remain  ?  To  send  you 
flowers  .f^" 

She  was  in  great  trouble  now,  though  she  bore  it 
stilly.  "I  don't  know  how  to  answer  you,"  she  said ;  "I 
think  you  do  me  great  honour."  He  saw  that  she  was 
trembling ;  but  pity  does  not  enter  into  a  man  at  such 
a  time. 

"Honour,  as  you  understand  it,  as  I  believe  it — it  is  not 
for  me  to  say.  All  honour  should  be  yours  from  all 
men — and  yet  love  should  be  something.  Is  it  nothing 
to  you  to  be  loved  by  a  man.^*  Then  manhood  and  love 
are  nothing.  High-born  as  you  are,  delicate  and  rare, 
and  sweet  of  blood  as  you  are — faring  softly — of  a  race 
unknown  to  mine — for  all  this,  which  you  can  never 
lose,  I  offer  you  a  man's  love.  I  am  neither  fool, 
nor  knave,  nor  coward — and  if  you  give  me  the  right 
I  will  serve  you  before  all  your  world,  and  claim 
you,  too.     And  I  will  make  bold  to  add  this — that  I 


280  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

will  content  you  if  you  give  me  the  right.     What  do 

you  say?" 

She  could  not  answer. 

"Hermia,  what  do  you  say  ?"  She  shivered  a  little,  and 
folded  her  cloak  about  her. 

"You  must  know  what  I  must  say,"  she  said.  "I  am 
yours,  and  will  come  when  you  call  me.  I  will  go  where 
you  bid  me.  I  will  follow  you  over  the  world."  Vernour 
took  a  stride  forward;  she  held  out  her  surrendering 
hand.  He  knelt  on  both  his  knees,  and  kissed  it.  Then 
he  rose,  bowed,  and  left  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

WHICH   DEALS    CHIEPLY   WITH    MB,.    KANALd's    OPINIONS 

T  T  PON  a  time  of  wild  elation,  when  her  blood, 
^-^  thought,  and  senses  were  swirling  together  down  a 
mill-race,  Moth  intervened,  the  bright-eyed  and  intelli- 
gent Moth,  to  see  if  she  were  stirring  and  would  ride.  It 
was  eight  o'clock. 

"God  bless  me,  miss!" 

She  took  everything  literally  now.  "Yes,  yes,  oh.  Moth, 
he  has  blessed  me." 

Moth  was  alert  in  a  moment.  "It's  to  be  hoped  so,  in- 
deed, miss,  though  as  a  humble  Christian  I  say  it.  Little 
enough  we  know  of  such  things,  save  and  except  that 
women  have  the  worst  in  the  long  of  it.  Your  pardon, 
miss,  but  whoever  have  dressed  you  this  morning?" 

"I  dressed  myself — as  you  see." 

"See !  I  could  have  seen  it  blindfold,  miss,  if  you  will 
excuse  the  liberty.  Your  hair!  Miss  Hermia,  will  you 
ride.?" 

"Certainly,  I  shall  ride.  But  I  should  like  some  tea 
first,  if  you  please.     I  am  thirsty." 

She  was  fed,  she  was  dressed,  and  she  rode  out,  her  man 
behind  her,  into  the  blue  and  gold,  the  mist,  the  glory  and 
tender  promise  of  London  April.     It  all  seemed  personal 


282  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

to  her,  she  took  it  as  a  message,  as  an  augury,  the  fool- 
ish child.  Entering  the  park,  she  spurred  her  horse  and 
galloped  to  her  heart's  content.  Faster  than  four  hoofs 
flew  her  high  thoughts. 

Tom  Rodono,  who,  for  her  sake,  forswore  late  hours 
and  got  himself  into  the  saddle  betimes  that  he  might  see 
and  perhaps  speak  with  her,  watched  her  fly  past  him, 
veil  and  hair  streaming  like  pennons  behind  her.  A 
nymph  of  the  chase !  He  was  wrong.  She  was  a  nymph 
in  chase,  an  unharboured  deer. 

She  passed  him  more  slowly  the  second  time  round,  saw 
him,  and  reined  up.  Friends  with  all  the  world,  she  felt 
especially  tender  towards  him.  "What  demon  possesses 
you  this  morning.'"'  he  asked  her.  "You  ride  like  a 
creature  of  the  storm." 

She  felt  that  she  must  hold  herself  in  check,  lest  she 
blaze  her  secret  to  the  world.  "I  suppose  it  is  that  I  am 
very  well.  At  least,  I  have  blown  away  the  memories  of 
last  night." 

"A  great  party  !    All  the  Whig  world  and  all  its  wives." 

"Is  there  a  Whig  world?     I  had  forgotten  it." 

"There  are  more  worlds  in  this  old  globe  than  you  know 
of,  young  lady." 

She  laughed.  "I  suppose  so.  Yes — I  am  sure  there 
are."  She  then  found  that  she  had  been  dealing  with  a 
world  whose  inhabitants  wei'e  reduced  to  two. 

They  spoke  of  Sir  Francis,  capitulated  and  in  the 
Tower.     What  was  to  come  next.''     There  was  to  be  a 


MR.  RANALD'S  OPINIONS  S83 

great  Westminster  meeting — would  she  care  to  go? 
Bob  Ranald  was  to  speak — "and  your  man,  Vemour." 
Her  man,  Vernour !  She  could  have  laughed  aloud.  Of 
course,  she  would  go — of  course,  she  must. 

"It  could  be  easil}^  arranged,"  says  Tom.  "Grizel  will 
take  you,  and  I'll  be  in  charge.  You  shall  dine  in 
Clarges  Street,  and  we'll  make  a  part3^" 

She  rode  home  to  breakfast — to  find  her  flowers,  but  no 
letter,  no  further  sign.  It  was  clear  that  she  was  to 
wait,  say  nothing,  do  nothing.  Her  first  impulse  had 
been  to  give  battle  to  her  grandmother ;  but  she  supposed 
now  that  he  intended  to  do  that  himself. 

Reaction  followed  hard  upon  her  crowning  hour;  she 
became  restless  and  miserable,  not  that  she  doubted  him 
for  a  moment,  but  that  her  powers  of  endurance  should 
be  so  frail,  that  her  desire  of  sight,  speech,  and  touch 
should  be  so  overmastering,  that  her  violets  should  be 
no  comfort  to  her — these  things  frightened  her.  She 
felt  lonely — like  Ariadne  whom  the  god  Bacchus  had 
loved  for  one  burning  hour,  and  then  forsaken.  She  felt 
a  traitor  to  what  had  been  loveliest  in  her  love — her  hap- 
piness in  the  unkno^vm  lover,  who  was  hidden  in  the  woody 
fragrance  of  violets.  Like  Psyche,  she  had  sought  to 
see  his  face,  and  like  Eros  he  had  shone  upon  her,  once, 
and  now  was  gone. 

She  knew  not  what  to  do,  in  whom  to  confide.  She  went 
half-way  to  Brook  Street  to  see  his  mother,  but  found 


284  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

her  resolution  fail  her,  lest  he  should  be  there.  Some 
grain  of  pride  left  in  her — which  she  felt  to  be  her  shame, 
but  could  not  ignore — bade  her  believe  that  she  would 
sooner  die  than  seek  him  anywhere.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, she  found  her  drill-routine  of  dinners,  assem- 
blies, routs,  and  balls  unspeakably  flat,  until  b}^  chance 
she  met  Mr.  Robert  Ranald,  and  learned  that  he  would 
talk,  of  his  own  accord,  of  Vernour.  Apart  from  this 
pleasing  trait,  she  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  he  was 
worth  listening  to  for  his  own  sake ;  and  she  was  a  little 
shocked  with  herself  to  find  that  she  could  be  interested 
in  politics — in  the  fight  at  long  odds  which  all  whom  she 
had  ever  loved  had  been  waging  for  so  long  as  she  could 
remember.  It  savoured,  to  her,  of  disloyalty  that  she 
could  care  for  anything  in  the  world  beside  Vernour. 
Nevertheless,  Mr.  Ranald,  or  Captain  Ranald,  as  he 
actually  was,  approved  himself  to  her  sympathies  as  well 
as  her  understanding. 

He  was  in  great  spirits,  as  alwa3'S  when  fighting  uphill ; 
he  smiled  awry,  wrinkled  his  forehead,  chuckled,  rubbed 
his  hands  together.  He  had  a  burnt  brown  seaman's 
face ;  his  skin  looked  as  if  it  had  been  strained  taut  with 
keys — like  a  drum — and  had  cracked  and  slightly  blis- 
tered at  the  bones.  He  was  very  lean  and  very  big- 
boned,  but  exceedingly  healtliy. 

He  confessed  to  her  now  that  he  had  a  task  on  hand 
which  might  very  well  put  the  capstone  on  his  monument 
of  discredit.     "Burdett  is  hated  by  Ministers,"  he  said. 


MR.  RANALD'S  OPINIONS  285 

"whom  he  irritates,  but  the  understrappers  respect  him 
because  he's  rich.  Now,  I'm  poor,  for  a  lord's  son,  so 
the  smaller  fry  can  afford  to  hate  me ;  and  they  work  on 
the  others.  Where  Burdett  goes  to  the  Tower,  they 
might  have  me  in  the  pillory — and,  perfectly  hon- 
estly, I  wish  they  would.  It's  a  barbarous  form  of 
torment ;  but,  by  heaven,  I  should  be  the  last  man  to 
have  it!" 

"My  dear  Miss  Chambre,"  he  said  to  her  on  one  of  these 
meetings  of  theirs,  "you  may  thank  God  you  were  not 
born  into  the  world  with  an  eye  for  windmills.  I'm  not 
so  sure,  by  the  bye,  that  you  were  not — I  seem  to  remem- 
ber something."  This  made  her  laugh  and  blush.  "It's 
very  well  to  laugh,"  he  said,  "and  I  allow  the  sport  is 
rare — but  the  thing  gets  on  to  the  brain  and  breeds  a 
maggot.  Very  soon  it  comes  about  that  j-ou  see  men 
as  mills  walking,  and  parade  the  streets  of  this  town, 
lance  in  rest,  looking  for  'em.  What  on  earth  have  I 
got  to  do  with  rotten  boroughs  and  rogues  in  chief  seats  ? 
Nothing  in  the  world ;  my  business  is  piracy.  I  went  into 
the  House  as  a  seaman  because  I  couldn't  stand  the  fleec- 
ing of  the  finest  fellows  and  direst  fools  in  England  by  a 
set  of  Quaker  scoundrels  not  fit  to  scrape  their  boots — 
and  here  I  am  dancing  before  King  Mob  in  the  hope  of 
getting  old  Percival's  head  on  a  charger." 

He  spoke  of  Vernour,  calling  him,  as  Rodono  had, 
"your  man,  Vernour."  He  thought  he  would  go  fur. 
"He's  got  fire  in  reserve ;  he  banks  it.     I  think  that  he 


286  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

does  you  credit,  and  may  do  you  more.  I  suppose  you 
see  nothing  of  him?"  She  admitted,  not  much.  "Well," 
he  said,  "it  so  happens  that  I've  seen  a  fairish  deal.  He's 
young — I  dare  say  that  he  might  be  six-and-twenty — 
but  he's  capable,  and  his  father  is  well  off ;  so  the  young 
man  has  his  freedom;  he's  a  freeman  of  Westminster, 
one  of  my  'lambs.'  The  fact  is  that  he  behaved  very  well 
indeed  in  that  business  of  your  grandmother's — mons- 
trous bit  of  tyranny  that  was,  saving  her  presence.  Be- 
fore I  knew  you — before  I  had  that  honour  of  meeting 
you  at  Caryll  House — Cobbett  told  me  something  of  the 
case,  and  made  my  blood  boil.  I  don't  mind  telling  you 
now.  Well,  I  was  in  more  than  two  minds  to  raise  a  de- 
bate in  the  House  about  that  affair ;  I  suspected  the  very 
mischief  was  in  it — Carlton  House,  York  House,  God 
knows  what  house.  Windmills,  my  dear  Miss  Chambre — 
infernal  things  they  are !  Your  man  came  to  see  me, 
and  to  beg  me  not  to  move.  He  made  me  some  mystery, 
mentioning  no  names,  mind  you — said  that  ample  amends 
had  been  done — not  money,  not  a  horse,  not  custom — far 
greater  honour  had  been  done  him  than  that;  he  had 
received  a  gift  beyond  price,  incalculable,  et  cetera.  I 
confess,  I  didn't  know  then  what  the  young  man  meant, 
but  I  do  now.  You  made  a  man  of  him,  jNIiss  Chambre, 
and  now  he  acts  like  a  man.  He's  going  to  speak  at  our 
meeting — you'll  hear  him.  He's  educated  himself — 
he's  rough — but  he  has  the  soul  of  a  gentleman — God 
bless  me!  what  am  I  talkino-  about .'^ — he  has  the  soul  of 


MR.  RANALD'S  OPINIONS  287 

a  man."  She  was  all  in  a  glow ;  tears  brimmed  her 
eyes. 

"The  soul  of  a  man  speaks,"  was  all  that  she  could  trust 
herself  to  say.    He  put  up  his  hand. 

"Don't  flatter  me.  I'm  a  lunatic.  My  name  is  Bob 
Quixote." 

"That  was  the  name  of  a  man  and  a  gentleman,"  said 
she.  , 

"Yes,  we'll  remember  that.  And  mind  you  this :  it's  the 
fools  who  do  the  work  of  the  world,  and  the  wise  who 
profit.     So  you  may  choose." 

She  looked  serious  and  most  beautiful.  He  obsersed 
her  eyes  and  thought  he  had  never  seen  any  more  wonder- 
ful grey  light.  She  was  like  the  Sibyl,  new  from  com- 
merce Avith  the  divine. 

"I  think  I  have  chosen.     I  know  that  I  have." 

He  smiled.     "You  join  our  company.'"' 

*'0h,"  she  said,  "I  shall  be  called  a  fool,  most  certainly." 

She  was  to  accompany  the  Clarges  Street  party  to  the 
Crown  and  Anchor  meeting;  she  was  to  dine  and  sleep 
there.  Lady  Morfa  had  no  care  for  the  opinion  of  West- 
minster freeholders  in  any  event,  and  her  only  stipula- 
tion was  that  Sir  George  Coigne  should  accompany  the 
ladies.  So  he  was  to  be  included.  Another  person  who 
intended  to  be  present  was  Mr.  Aloysius  Banks,  who  had 
become  of  late  very  much  the  servant  of  Caryll  House. 
Lady  Morfa,  finding  him  useful,  had  permitted  him  to 


288  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

take  up  the  duties  of  jackal,  and  listened  to  him  with 
a  mixed  air  of  amusement  and  contempt  which  she  did 
not  attempt  to  conceal.  When  he  told  her  that  he 
thought  it  his  business  to  be  there,  she  replied  that 
she  thought  so  too.  "You  are  a  philosopher,  my  good 
sir,"  she  said,  "and  can  only  formulate  wisdom  out 
of  the  ravages  of  folly.  Go  by  all  means,  and  observe 
fools." 

"Did  your  ladyship  chance  to  hear,"  said  Mr.  Banks, 
*'that  the  young  man,  Vemour,  was  to  be  one  of  the 
speakers  ?" 

Her  ladyship  had  not  heard  that,  and  was  not  sure  that 
she  remembered  his  name.  So,  at  least,  she  said. 

Mr.  Banks  enlarged  upon  Vemour.  A  young  man  of 
extreme  opinions  and  dangerous  license.  The  Govern- 
ment had  him  in  mind.  He  had  been  befriended,  he  said, 
by  persons  of  consequence — by  Lord  Sandgate,  Captain 
Ranald,  Sir  Francis,  and  others  of  even  greater  rank. 
He  went  no  further,  because  he  saw  that  her  ladyship 
was  now  perfectly  aware  of  what  he  was  saying ;  but  he 
added  that,  in  his  own  opinion,  it  was  the  business  of  all 
those  whose  abihty  to  serve  the  State  was  the  sole  measure 
of  their  right  to  do  so — of  those  who,  like  himself,  pre- 
tended to  no  natural  right — it  was  their  business,  he  had 
been  saying,  to  report  scrupulously  upon  any  symptom 
of  irregularity  in  those  wise  provisions  which,  etc.,  etc. 
1  have  followed  him  further  than  his  patroness  already, 
and  shall  cut  him  short  by  her  assistance. 


MR.  RANALD'S  OPINIONS  289 

"You  mean,"^  said  Lady  Morfa,  "that  you  are  going 
to  take  notes  of  what  thiS  young  man  says?" 

"I  conceive  my  duty  to  be  so,  madam,  unless  your  lady- 
ship  "     He  paused,  expectant. 

"My  dear  man,"  said  her  ladyship,  "what  do  you  sup- 
pose your  conceptions  have  to  do  with  me  ?" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

WHICH    REPORTS.  A    WESTMINSTER    MEETING 

fT^HEY  arrived  early,  and  sat  in  the  front  row  of  the 
-■■  gallery?  six  ladies  all  in  black,  with  hoods  and  veils, 
and  since  Sir  George  at  the  last  moment  had  cried  off,  only 
Tom  Rodono  to  mount  guard  over  them.  Miss  Chambre 
recalled  to  mind  Lady  Mary  Wortley's  description  of  a 
harem  at  the  mosque.  In  course  of  time  the  veils  were 
put  back,  but  until  that  was  done  the  one  spot  of  light 
furnished  by  the  bevy  was  a  knot  of  white  violets  which 
one  of  them  wore  at  the  breast,  and  would  not  have  cov- 
ered for  all  the  world.  They  chattered  and  laughed 
among  themselves,  these  fine,  adventurous  and  calm-eyed 
ladies ;  watched  the  arrivals  and  quizzed  them,  saw  that 
Lord  Rodono  was  uncomfortable,  and  spared  him  noth- 
ing. Mrs.  Western  vowed  she  would  wave  her  handker- 
chief to  the  first  man  who  named  the  Princess  of  Wales ; 
and  presently  Vernour  was  mentioned  and  provoked  curi- 
osity. Everybody  knew  him  and  his  tale ;  Hermia  was 
begged  to  point  him  out.  He  was  to  speak  .^  Then  he 
would  be  on  the  platform  and  they  could  all  see  him. 
Was  he  really  like  the  man  in  that  horrible  print.''  If 
so,  he  must  be  handsome,  Lady  Ogmore  thought.  Her- 
mia, very  composed  outwardly,  took  all  this  with  great 


A  WESTMINSTER  MEETING  291 

simplicity.  As  for  Lord  Rodono,  he  prepared  himself 
for  the  worst.  Here  he  was  with  six  handsome  and  fear- 
less ladies  on  his  hands,  and  an  almost  certain  rumpus. 
He  had  seen,  but  said  nothing  of  certain  Government 
men  dotted  about  the  hall — one  of  whom  he  knew  was  in 
receipt  of  pay.  It  was  Hermia  herself  who  saw  and 
called  attention  to  Mr.  Aloysius  Banks,  whose  checked 
muffler  up  to  his  chin  made  him  a  conspicuous  object. 
]Meantime,  the  room  was  filling  fast. 

The  leaders  were  on  the  hustings,  they  led  in  the  body 
of  the  hall,  a  tense  and  fervent  assembly.  Rodono,  who 
knew  men,  saw  that  there  was  hardly  anybody  present 
who  did  not  in  his  own  way  show  himself  braced  for  a 
tussle.  There  was  much  variety:  it  was  what  you  would 
call  a  representative  gathering.  Blue-coated,  nankeen- 
breeched,  prosperous  traders  leaned  both  hands  solidly 
upon  their  walking-sticks,  and  chatted  after  their  way — 
a  few  words  snapped  out  at  a  time,  a  whisper  behind  the 
hand,  received  with  a  nod.  Sharp-faced  men  in  black 
smalls,  with  neat  black  legs  and  neater  shoes,  proved 
brisker;  they  were  full  of  jokes  and  of  relish  for  jokes: 
lawyers  from  the  Hall,  attorneys  from  Abingdon 
Street  were  these.  They  exchanged  snuff-boxes,  capped 
each  other's  puns,  passed  them  on  with  nudges,  and 
knew  everybody  worth  knowing.  Watermen  filled  a 
double  row,  red-faced  and  observant.  It  was  one  of 
them  who  called  for  three  cheers  for  the  ladies  when  our 
friends  appeared,  and  led  them,  with  one  cheer  more  for 


292  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

the  handsomest.  Behind  them,  closer  packed,  was  a 
rougher  sort — frieze-coated  or  long-waistcoated  men  in 
woollen  stockings  and  highlows,  who  all  kept  heavy 
sticks  between  their  knees,  and  had  lowering  brows  and 
dogs'  restless  eyes.  These  were  of  the  famous  Westmin- 
ster pack — chairmen,  hackney-coachmen,  stable  hands, 
potmen,  tinkers,  costers,  night-porters.  They  could  be 
trusted  to  do  anything,  from  chairing  a  candidate  to 
breaking  a  Minister's  windows,  as  they  might  be  moved. 
They  had  many  names :  had  been  "Wilkes  and  Liberty 
men,"  "Fox's  men,"  and  now  they  were  Burdett's  men 
and  Ranald's.  One  might  be  sorry  for  the  Government 
spy  whose  head  came  within  range  of  their  blackthorns. 
Hermia  saw  Vernour  come  in  presently  and  make  a  way 
to  the  middle  of  the  hall.  He  had  a  fine,  leisurely 'way  of 
pushing  through  a  crowd,  kept  his  head  high  and  his 
shoulders  very  square,  and  leaned  a  little  forward  so  that 
his  weight  might  tell.  She  saw  him  the  moment  he  en- 
tered, and  hardly  took  her  eyes  off  him  again,  but  could 
not  be  sure  whether  he  had  discovered  her  presence  or 
not.  One  of  the  strongest  attractions  he  had  for  her 
was  his  seeming  power  of  fitting  her  into  a  scheme  of 
many  things  which  all  seemed  equally  important ;  so  that 
she  could  never  say  that  she  was  more  to  him  than  other 
interests.  She  was  certain  just  now,  for  instance,  that 
had  she  stood  immediately  before  him  and  said,  "I  am 
here,"  he  would  have  greeted  her  with  ceremony,  asked 
how  she  did,  and  have  turned  then  to  the  real  business  of 


A  WESTMINSTER  MEETING  293 

his  evening.  And  the  odd  thing  is  that  she  loved  him 
the  better  and  admired  him  the  more  for  this  shared 
throne  which  he  accorded  her. 

He  stood  easily  in  his  place,  taking  off  his  scarf  and 
caped  coat,  and  nodded  here  and  there  to  an  acquaint- 
ance. With  one  or  two  he  shook  hands,  but  only  when 
the  salutation  was  thrust  upon  him ;  he  never  volunteered 
it.  She  saw  a  little  black-browed  man  lean  over  from 
the  lawyer's  row  and  hold  his  hand  out,  and  that  Vemour 
added  an  inclination  of  the  head  as  he  took  it.  With 
others  he  was  less  concerned.  The  frieze  coats  had 
thumped  with  their  sticks  when  he  passed  them,  and  Mr. 
Aloysius  Banks  stood  up  to  have  a  good  look  at  him. 
He  was  certainly  considered  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor. 

Captain  Ranald,  who  had  received  a  storm  of  cheering 
on  his  entry,  came  off  the  hustings  to  speak  to  Vemour. 
The  young  man  rose  at  his  approach,  bowed,  and  stood 
deferentially,  listening  to  what  was  told  him.  He  plainly 
demurred  to  some  part  of  his  instructions,  and  argued 
the  difficulty  with  a  calm  persistence  which  got  him  his 
way.  She  who  watched  him  so  keenly  was  struck  by  the 
contrast  between  this  pair,  and,  as  you  may  guess,  gave 
him  the  honours.  The  peer's  son  was  all  fire  and  vivacity, 
full  of  action  of  the  hands  and  play  of  feature ;  the  other 
held  himself  in  reserve,  and  was  stiff-  When  he  spoke, 
he  used  no  gestures.  He  seemed  to  be  bending  to  an  in- 
ferior ;  and  she  did  not  fail  to  notice  that  he  got  his  way. 

So  it  was  with  the  speeches  which  followed:  she  could 


294  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

criticise  Ranald,  and  found  plenty  of  fault  with  him. 
He  disappointed  her,  and  the  more  so  because  she  knew 
of  what  stuff  he  was ;  she  had  hoped  that  he  would  be  as 
direct  on  the  platform  as  he  had  been  at  the  dinner-table  ; 
that  he  would  be  trenchant,  and  deal  his  strokes  with  the 
gallantry  which  he  certainly  possessed.  She  had  to  own 
him  stilted  and  ornate  while  he  was  handling  what  was 
really  to  the  point,  and  only  himself  when  he  came,  as 
llodono  said  he  was  bound  to  come,  to  the  Navy  and  the 
supply  of  seamen.  He  was  cogent,  weighty,  and  impres- 
sive ;  but  he  roused  no  more  enthusiasm  at  the  close  than 
he  had  at  the  beginning  of  his  speech — and  to  do  that  is 
to  fail.  The  truth,  I  suspect,  is  that  the  two  sorts  of  men 
who  are  natural  on  a  platform  are  the  deeply  modest 
man,  who  dares  be  nothing  less,  and  the  deeply  conceited 
man  who  cares  not  to  be  anything  more.  Between  these 
two  extremes  are  all  the  varieties  of  human  capacity. 
This  gallant  gentleman  respected  his  hearers  and  his 
cause  and,  without  over-valuation,  respected  himself; 
but  he  clung  to  the  traditions  of  oratory  as  to  a  good 
coat  for  Sundays.  Probably  he  would  as  soon  have  ap- 
peared on  the  quarter-deck  of  his  ship  without  uniform 
as  have  addressed  the  Westminster  electors  in  anything 
short  of  the  periods  of  Mr.  Burke. 

Mr.  Wardle  succeeded  him,  Mr.  Gwillym  Wardle,  fa- 
mous friend  of  Mrs.  Clark,  who  had  no  rhetorical  scru- 
ples, and  hesitated  not  to  talk  of  rotten  boroughs,  place- 
men, royal  pensioners,  and  the  like.      He  it  was  who 


A  WESTMINSTER  MEETING  295 

earned  the  promised  handkerchief,  for  he  spoke  with 
faltering  voice  of  the  Princess  of  Wales,  as  of  a  lady 
"as  beautiful  as  she  was  unhappy,  and  as  unhappy  as  she 
was  royal,"  and  raised  a  roar  of  agreement.  Mr.  War- 
die,  in  fact,  succeeded  in  what  he  had  intended.  He  made 
the  auditory  mischievous,  when  he  gave  them  an  inkling 
of  their  power.  ^^Aj,  gentlemen,"  he  cried,  "shout  for 
that  poor  lady !  And  I  would  that  the  thunder  of  your 
resentment  could  be  heard  across  the  way,  and  further 
yet — across  the  park,  gentlemen — as  one  of  these  days 
it  will  be  heard.  And  then,  gentlemen,  and  then — God 
help  'em !"  None  of  this  was  very  wise  talk ;  but  it  was 
excitii^g  enough.  By  the  time  Vernour  rose  for  his  turn 
it  was  plain  that  mischief  was  afloat. 

He  stood  up  in  his  place  and  held  his  head  high ;  and 
the  gesture  contributed  not  a  little  to  an  effect  which  to 
one  at  least  of  his  audience  was  overwhelming.  It  is  not 
often  that  one's  preconception  of  character  is  borne  out 
by  evidence  so  various  as  outward  bearing  and  audible 
speech  may  be.  But  Vernour  seemed — proved  himself — 
to  Miss  Chambre  to  be  all  of  a  piece.  She  had  built  him 
up  from  a  moment's  glimpse  of  his  stiff  head  and  hot 
eyes ;  she  had  pictured  him  then  as  a  man  of  destiny. 
Nothing  she  had  ever  seen  or  heard  of  him  had  detracted 
from  that  image.  In  his  own  shop — with  the  stuff  of 
his  business  about  him — he  had  never  compromised;  in 
the  garden  of  her  great  house,  it  had  been  she  who  had 
gone  to  him,  and  he  who  had  waited  for  her  to  come ;  and 


296  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

now,  lastly,  here,  he  spoke  to  the  people  as  to  her  in  the 
garden,  in  a  manner  assuredly  innate.  He  was  quiet, 
plain,  succinct,  with  much  in  reserve.  He  had  all  the 
effect  of  meaning  more  than  he  said — which  in  oratory 
is  the  great  effect ;  and  he  seemed  to  be  in  a  position  to 
threaten  and  to  have  certain  knowledge  which  would 
make  threats  good.  The  thrilling  undercurrent  of  per- 
sonal triumph — she  may  have  fancied  that.  .  ,  .  "I  my- 
self have  felt  the  hand  of  tyranny  on  my  neck,  I  my- 
self have  been  pushed  into  the  mire — but  by  the  grace  of 
God  I  am  here  to  tell  you  so.  If  there  is  anything  harder 
to  bear  than  undeserved  shame,  I  know  not  what  it  may 
be.  It  makes  men  mad,  it  makes  them  as  wicked  as  their 
oppressors — and  so  the  devil's  work  goes  on.  .  .  .  What 
sustained  me,  lifted  me  up  from  the  pit  of  degradation 
where  I  was  soused  is  to  you  no  matter,  though  to  me  it 
is  all  the  world ;  but  in  kind  the  same  solace  is  with  that 
great  man  whom  the  tyrants  of  England  think  to  have 
drowned.  They  have  not  drowned  him,  for  you  are  hold- 
ing up  his  head.  They  are  here,  listening  to  you  and  me. 
They  dare  us  to  save  our  hero's  hfe  .  .  .  let  them  dare, 
but  if  they  are  wise  they  will  stop  in  time.  ..."  The 
audience  was  stirred  with  this  piece  of  news  ;  heads  turned 
curiously ;  men  looked  at  their  neighbours ;  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  hall  somebody  cried  out,  *'Damn  the  spies !" 

Vernour  ended  with  a  device  which  he  may  perhaps  have 
got  out  of  the  Latin  Syntax-  "The  people  is  enormously 
patient — we  may  pride  ourselves  on  that — and  it  is  slow. 


A  WESTMINSTER  MEETING  297 

We  may  pride  ourselves  on  that,  too — for  this  slowness 
and  this  patience  are  signs  of  enormous  strength.  Woe 
upon  him  who  tempts  the  people !    He  will  flog  one  man 

too  many,  imprison  one  man  too  long,  and  then " 

He  stopped  in  a  dead  silenc:e ;  it  was  a  fine  rhetorical 
trick.  His  eyes  shone,  his  head  was  high.  He  com- 
posed his  voice  to  finish.  "And  then — all  over,  gentle- 
men, all  over!  That  is  revolution."  He  sat  down,  and 
there  was  a  short  silence  before  the  storm  began. 

It  began  with  a  vague,  indefinable  stir,  half  shuffling  of 
feet,  half  humming  of  voices  all  confused  together ;  and 
then,  no  one  knew  exactly  how,  one  man  had  another  by 
the  neck,  three  or  four  jumped  up  at  once  in  different 
parts  of  the  hall,  crying  "To  hell  with  the  spies !  To 
hell  with  'em!"  The  room  seemed  aswarm  with  white 
faces  and  tossing  arms,  and  there  was  a  continuous  roar 
like  that  of  the  wind  at  night.  Captain  Ranald  could  bo 
seen  gesticulating  from  the  hustings,  but  not  heard ; 
Mr.  Wardle  was  buttoning  his  coat.  Vcrnour,  ]\Iiss 
Chambre  watching  him,  stood  with  his  arms  folded,  look- 
ing on  what  he  had  done — as  if  he  had  known  as  much 
before — his  brows  knitted,  his  chin  sunk  in  his  breast. 

Rodono  made  her  jump  by  his  words  in  her  car.  She 
had  been  far  away.  "We'll  be  out  of  this,  I  think,  while 
we've  time."  The  ladies  rose  and  followed  him  down  the 
stair;  it  would  be  necessary  for  them  to  enter  the  room 
and  creep  along  by  the  wall  to  the  door;  but  they  were 
too  late.     The  constables  were  in,  using  their  staves,  and 


298  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

the  place  was  like  the  trenches  with  the  bayonets  at  work. 
"Get  back,  get  back,"  Rodono  called  over  his  shoulder, 
but  Miss  Chambre  was  already  beside  him,  clear  of  the 
door ;  and  almost  immediately  the  lights  were  blown  out. 
Rodono  held  the  gallery-door,  and  his  womankind  clung 
together  behind  it.  The  fighting  had  settled  down  to 
serious  work ;  the  only  sounds  to  be  heard  were  grunts, 
groans,  and  deep  breathing,  with  now  and  then  the 
thwacks  of  a  club,  and  a  curse  or  cry  of  rage. 

Whether  Miss  Chambre  was  frightened  or  not  I  cannot 
say  for  certain.  All  I  know  is  that  she  leaned  with  her 
back  to  the  wall,  in  complete  darkness,  and  made  no  effort 
to  gain  the  shelter  of  Lord  Rodono's  back.  Her  position 
was  not  without  danger,  for  fighting  or  scuffling  was 
going  on  so  close  to  her  that  at  times  her  cloak  was  swept 
forward  or  backward,  and  she  might  very  well  have  been 
drawn  into  the  thick  of  it ;  her  foot  was  trodden ;  at  any 
moment  she  could  have  become  involved.  How  long  she 
could  have  remained  safely  there,  how  long  she  did  re- 
main, neither  she  knew,  nor  do  I ;  but  she  heard  herself 
called,  distinctly,  by  name — out  of  the  dark,  as  before 
when  she  had  stood  waiting  on  the  balcony — out  of  the 
dark,  "Hermia — Hermia  Mary,"  and  she  answered,  "I 
am  here,"  and  held  out  her  hands.  They  were  caught, 
and  b}'^  them  she  was  dra^Ti  from  her  place ;  her  form  was 
gained,  she  was  enclosed  in  a  strong  clasp,  she  was 
caught  up  against  a  strong  breast.  "My  love,  my  love, 
Hermia !"     Strong  breath  fanned  her  face,  her  lips  were 


A  WESTMINSTER  MEETING  299 

possessed — and  for  a  crowning  moment  she  lost  con- 
sciousness. 

"Come,  I  will  take  jou  out  of  this,"  Vernour  said,  and 
she  knew  that  he  could  prove  his  words.  Held  closely  bj 
his  arm  about  her  waist,  she  was  half  lifted,  half  led  into 
the  air.  It  was  a  dark,  warm  and  wet  spring  night ;  a 
hot  wind  coming  in  squalls,  scudding  rain.  The  cobbles 
gleamed  under  the  flicker  of  lamps  which  swung  and 
tossed  as  the  gust  caught  them.  In  the  crowd  about  the 
door,  and  in  the  semi-darkness  of  the  night,  his  arm  still 
held  her  closely ;  but  as  they  got  free  of  people  he  let 
her  go,  and  they  walked  together  in  silence,  she,  at  least, 
very  incapable  of  speech. 

When  he  spoke,  it  was  in  his  ordinary,  carefully-con- 
tained tone.  "You  are  hurt.'*  You  are  frightened.'' 
That's  not  possible." 

"No,  no — not  frightened."  For  her  life  she  could  not 
have  said  more.  Nothing  in  the  world  frightened  her  but 
himself.     He  praised  her  courage. 

"I  was  a  fool  to  say  what  I  knew  could  not  be  true. 
Nothing  could  frighten  you." 
"No,"  she  said — "nothing  now." 
He  looked  at  her.     "Why  did  you  sigh?" 
"Because  you  praise  me.    Because  I  am  happy." 
He  threw  his  head  up  and  laughed.     "The  good  rea- 
son !     The  best !     Come,  I  will  escort  you  to  your  door. 
You  are  in  Clarges  Street?" 
"Yes — but  how  did  you ?" 


300  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"It  is  my  business  to  know  everything  about  you.     You 
have  to  be  sensed  wlierever  you  may  be.    You  have  given 
me  leave  to  do  that." 
"Am  I  to  have  my  flowers — still  ?    Now  ?" 
"Surely,"  he  said.     "You  are  to  have  them  till  I  die." 
She  thought  this  a  wonderful  thing — and  told  him  so. 
What  she  did  not  add — perhaps  she  did  not  realise  it  yet 
— was  that  she  wanted  no  more  flowers.     They,  which 
had  meant  so  much,  now  meant  little;  but  she  opened 
her    cloak    and    showed    him.      "See,"    she    said,    "my 
badge." 

*'I  saw  it  long  ago.  I  gloried  in  you  for  that.  Will 
you  take  my  arm?"  She  put  her  hand  lightly  upon  it, 
and  they  went  on  together,  so. 

They  walked  slowly^ — there  was  every  reason  not  to 
hurry ;  they  talked  little,  and  she  found  out  that  her  own 
class  talks  too  much.  There  was  no  awkwardness  in 
silence ;  it  seemed  to  her,  still  trembling  from  his  embrace, 
still  conscious  of  her  kissed  lips,  that  there  could  never 
have  been  a  day  when  she  had  not  been  in  love  with  Ver- 
nour.  If  love  was  new  to  her,  so  was  he.  He  was  out- 
side all  her  experience;  she  had  known  men  strong,  but 
not  in  this  way.  They  expressed  it  by  speech,  he  by  re- 
fraining from  speech.  If  they  loved  her,  they  told  her 
so ;  but  she  believed  the  more  in  this  man's  love  the  less  he 
said  of  it.  So  she  walked  in  miracle,  in  touch  with  a 
miraculous  being,  with  a  heart  too  full  even  for  wonder. 
She  would  have  walked  into  the  Thames  had  he  chosen 


A  WESTMINSTER  MEETING  301 

it,  or  up  to  a  cannon's  mouth.  She  discussed  nothing, 
unless  he  opened  upon  the  subject — neither  plans,  nor 
the  past ;  but  she  did  ask  him  how  he  had  found  her,  and 
thrilled  at  his  answer:  "I  knew  where  you  were  at  every 
moment  of  the  evening.  I  saw  you  come  down  to  the 
door." 

"But  you  did  not  look  at  me ;  you  never  did." 

"Did  I  not?"  He  laughed.  "I  am  always  looking  at 
you.  I  am  looking  at  you  now.  I  am  loving  you  now. 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  think." 

"Tell  me,  please." 

"I  think  that  after  to-night  I  must  see  you  always." 

"Yes."  He  said  no  more,  and  she  could  not.  It  seemed 
that  she  must  be  for  ever  kept  upon  the  edge  of  bliss. 

She  took  no  thought  for  the  morrow,  since  he,  the  mas- 
ter of  her  mind,  proposed  to  her  none.  She  did  not  ask 
him  what  she  was  to  say  to  her  grandmother;  that  lady 
did  not  enter  her  head.  She  walked  by  his  side — a  girl 
in  the  spring — utterly  contented;  and  it  was  not  until 
they  were  near  the  door  of  the  house  in  Clargcs  Street 
that  she  remembered  her  needs.  Her  needs  ?  The  single 
need,  which  was  to  know  when  she  could  see  him  again. 
But  then,  as  he  made  no  proposals,  it  was  necessary  to 
stop  him. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "we  are  here !" 

"Yes,  we  must  go  our  ways  now." 

"Will  you  come  no  further.''" 

"I  shall  take  you  to  the  door.     It  is  close  by  us  now." 


302  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Her  hand  pressed  his  arm — he  stooped  to  her.  "My 
love,"  he  said,  "my  love !" 

"I  am  to  lose  you  now — it  is  hard.  When  will  you  come 
again  ?" 

He  thought  for  a  moment.  "It  is  very  needful  to  sec 
you  soon.  Something  must  be  done — settled.  I  will 
come  into  the  garden  to-morrow  night  at  ten — if  you — 
if  it  will  be  possible." 

"Possible !    Oh,  yes.     I  will  be  there." 

He  told  her,  "It  must  be  for  the  last  time.  This  can- 
not go  on — on  this  footing.  Now,  good-bye.  No,  no — 
I  must  not " 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  without  a  word,  and  he 
kissed  it.  He  was  plainly  seen  to  kiss  it  by  Captain 
Ranald  and  Lord  Rodono,  who  were  on  the  doorstep  of 
the  house  in  Clarges  Street.  How  much  more  these 
gentlemen  had  collected  it  would  not  be  easy  to  guess. 

"Thank  God  she's  safe,  at  least,"  said  Ranald,  and  ran 
down  to  meet  her.  "Good  Lord,  Miss  Chambre — and 
thank  the  good  Lord !  We  have  had  half  London  hunt- 
ing for  you.  Rodono  and  I  have  just  got  in — we've  been 
everywhere." 

"Thank  you.  Captain  Ranald — I  was  perfectly  safe  all 
the  time.  I  found  a  friend,  or  rather  he  found  me :  Mr. 
Vernour." 

"Yes,"  said  Ranald,  very  slowly — "yes,  I  believe  that 
you  are  safe  with  Vernour." 

Rodono  held  the  door  open  for  her,  anxious  ladies  were 


A  WESTMINSTER  MEETING  303 

in  the  hall.     "Is  she ?     Have  you ?     Oh,  my 

dearest,  my  dearest  child!"  She  was  enfolded,  kissed, 
and  made  much  of.  But  Lord  Rodono's  chilly  eyes 
looked  through  her  into  the  wall  beyond,  seeing  nothing. 
They  were  like  the  eyes  of  a  fish,  had  never  been  colder. 

"Thank  you.  Lord  Rodono,  for  hunting  me,"  she  said, 
as  she  ran  into  the  arms  of  Mrs.  Western. 

"Tom,"  said  Ranald,  as  he  buttoned  his  great-coat,  "I'll 
take  you  with  me  to  Brooks's,  I  think.  It'll  do  you 
good."     So  they  went  together. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


OBDEAL  BY  BATTLE 


T  ORD  RODONO,  at  Brooks's  with  his  friend,  had 
"^^^been  clear  as  to  what  he  intended  to  do,  so  clear  and 
clear  in  such  a  way  that  Ranald  could  hardly  intervene. 
After  all,  it  was  true  that  Tom  was  in  love ;  and  a  man  in 
love  may  do  more  than  a  man  out  of  it.  Ranald,  when  he 
was  pressed,  could  not  admit  that  he  was  in  love  with  the 
lady.  He  was  neutral,  he  said,  not  greatly  caring 
whether  she  married  Vemour  or  not,  so  long  as  she  mar- 
ried the  man  of  her  heart.  "I'm  not  at  all  in  love  with 
her,"  he  said,  "but  I  like  her  well  enough  to  hope  that  her 
marriage  will  be  made  in  heaven,  and  not  in  Caryll 
House.  I  like  her  very  much  indeed ;  I  admire  her  spirit 
and  good  sense ;  I  think  she's  as  handsome  a  young 
woman  as  London  contains.  I  think  mj^self  a  fool  that  I 
am  not  over  head  and  ears  in  love — but  there  I  stop. 
The  fact  is,  I'm  not  a  romantic  man,  I'm  not  a  philander- 
ing man.    No  offence  to  you,  though." 

Lord  Rodono,  very  stiff  and  staring,  consumed  brandy 
and  water  steadily,  stopping  only  to  glare  at  the  fire, 
strengthen  the  fold  of  his  arms  and  tap  his  foot  on  the 
carpet.  "This  is  more  than  scandalous,  upon  my  heart 
and  conscience.    I'm  more  shocked  than  I  can  say.     She! 


ORDEAL  BY  BATTLE  305 

that  peerless,  that  splendid — Dick  Chambre's  girl — fine 
descent  on  both  sides — Fitzgerald  blood,  Caryll,  Bote- 
tort — she!  and  a  damned,  mouthing  Radical  butcher! 
Oh,  God,  Ranald — it  hiakes  Othello  of  me.'* 

"Don't  let  it  make  lago,  my  friend,"  said  Ranald ;  "you 
overdo  that  battening  business — which  is  sickly  work  for 
a  man  of  your  parts.  The  fellow's  not  a  butcher  any 
more,  but  as  good  as  you  or  I.  For  that  matter,  I  believe 
him  to  be  a  good  deal  better."  He  looked  down  upon  the 
incensed  man  rigid  in  his  chair.  "I  think  3^ou  may  make 
mischief,  Tom — I  do,  indeed.  I  know  the  man,  and  you 
don't.  I  tell  you  again,  he's  a  fine  fellow — a  man  of 
strength.  Could  3'Ou  or  I  have  spoken  as  he  did.''  An- 
swer for  yourself.  I  know  very  well  that  I  could  not. 
In  what  makes  a  man  essentially  a  gentleman  he's  well 
found.  I'll  go  bail  for  him,  Vernour  would  never  stoop 
to  a  blackguardly  thing." 

Lord  Rodono  glared  at  him.  "Has  he  not,  by  heaven ! 
Has  he  not  repaid  her  finely  for  her  generosity.'*  An- 
swer me  that." 

Ranald  thought  for  a  moment  before  he  took  up  the 
challenge.  He  plunged  his  hands  deep  in  his  breeches 
pockets.  "Upon  my  honour,"  he  said,  "I  think  she'll 
make  him  a  good  wife."  Up  jumped  Rodono,  breath- 
ing short.     "Do  you  care  to  laugh  at  me,  Ranald?" 

"No,  I  do  not.  I  mean  what  I  say.  I  believe  in  her 
more  than  you  do,  after  all,  it  seems  to  me ;  for  I'm  dead 
certain  that  she'd  never  let  a  man  touch  her  unless  she 


306  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

liked  him,  nor  would  like  a  man  unless  he  were  a  fine 
one.  I  could  say  no  more  for  my  sister — and  it  ought 
to  come  from  you  rather  than  me.  I  confess  I  don't 
understand  your  sort  of  love,  Rodono.  You  say,  I  adore 
this  lady,  I  believe  her  to  be  all  that  is  excellent  in  women 
— on  condition  that  she  loves  me.  The  moment  she 
chooses  for  somebody  else,  you  cease  to  believe  in  her, 
but  go  on  loving.  My  good  friend,  you'll  forgive  me  for 
saying  that  that  is  more  like  craving  than  loving." 

Lord  Rodono  regarded  him  coldly,  and  then  turned  on 
his  heel.  "I  wish  you  good-night,  Ranald,"  he  said  over 
his  shoulder  as  he  went.  It's  ill  reasoning  with  an  angry 
man.     Ranald  let  him  go. 

The  meeting  took  place  in  the  garden,  at  the  appointed 
hour.  Her  ladyship  had  dined  abroad,  and  Hermia  was 
to  be  escorted  to  join  her  at  eleven,  then  to  be  taken  to  a 
party  at  Lady  Crowland's.  Dining  alone — for  Harriet 
was  away — she  had  fidgeted  herself  into  a  fever  for  the 
keeping  of  her  tryst;  and  this  made  her  very  shy  and 
very  humble.  Her  lover's  conduct  drove  her  bashful- 
ness  out  of  her.  He  was  grave  and  unapproachable. 
"My  love,"  he  said,  "I  am  greatly  to  blame  for  this  un- 
derhand way  in  which  I  lead  you.  I  beg  your  pardon ; 
there  shall  be  no  more." 

Frightened  out  of  her  wits,  she  begged  him  to  explain 

himself.     Did  he — could  he  mean ?     Oh,  no,  no,  he 

could  not  mean She  was  timid,  but  with  all  the  world 


ORDEAL  BY  BATTLE  307 

at  stake  she  drew  near  and  touched  him  on  the  arm.  He 
gave  a  short  cry,  and  took  her.  She  gave  him  her  Hps, 
which  he  had  made  his  already.  He  strained  her  to  his 
breast.    Quite  out  of  herself,  she  lay  weeping  In  his  arms. 

He  mastered  his  transport,  with  another  cry  which 
sounded  as  if  he  were  angry,  and  would  have  put  her 
away ;  but  now  she  would  not  go.  The  fountain  of  her 
heart  was  unsealed  now ;  her  lips  had  been  conquered, 
her  waist  made  prisoner.  Hugging  her  chains,  she  must 
give  him  all — nay,  she  could  not  be  denied  that  bliss.  So 
it  was,  "Hold  me,  oh  my  love,  kiss  me,  touch  me.  Let 
me  know  myself  yours."  For  a  moment  he  yielded  to  her 
desire,  but  only  for  a  moment.  Resolutely  then  he  put 
her  from  him  and  told  her  that  they  must  meet  no  more 
until  they  could  meet  the  world.  Even  she  acknowledged 
the  difficulty  there,  and  had  to  own  that  she  didn't  know 
how  to  go  to  work.  He  said,  with  his  head  high,  that  he 
should  wait  upon  her  ladyship  in  the  morning,  and  then 
she  had  to  tell  him  how  far  out  of  the  question  that  was. 
"They  will  insult  you,  and  I  couldn't  bear  that." 

"Better  me  than  you,  my  dear,"  said  he ;  but  she  denied 
it. 

"I  know  granny  very  well.  She  will  not  hurt  me  at  all ; 
she  will  be  very  cold ;  she  will  send  me  to  my  room  and 
keep  me  there — I  shall  stop  in  it — as  I  did  before  when — 
I  saw  you  for  the  first — no,  for  the  second  time.  In  the 
end  she  will  either  forget  me,  and  I  shall  walk  out,  or 
she  will  open  the  door  for  me  herself  and  tell  me  to  do  as 


308  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

I  please.  You  know,  David,  that  I  am  of  age.  But  I 
must  tell  you  one  thing — if  you  take  me,  you  will  take 
a  beggar.  I  have  a  little  money  now — more  since  my 
darling  brother  died — ^but  it  all  goes  if  I  don't  marry 
granny's  choice." 

"My  love,"  he  said,  "I  want  none  of  your  mone3^  I  am 
well  enough  in  money — but  I  shall  need  all  your  for- 
bearance.   You  know  me  as  I  am — you  have  seen  me  as  I 

must  be "    His  broken  voice  made  her  cry  ;  she  could 

have  kneeled  to  him.  She  came  to  him,  took  his  hand, 
lifted  it  and  kissed  it.  *'My  King  David — my  king  of 
men."  He  put  his  arm  about  her  very  gently,  and, 
stooping,  kissed  her  lips.  "You  will  make  me  a  king 
yet,  my  love.  I  will  be — I  can  be  whatever  you  choose 
to  have  me.  Now  leave  me,  my  soul — I  will  see  your 
grandmother  in  the  morning — and  you  again  when  I 
have  earned  you." 

This  was  so  serious  that  she  had  at  all  costs  to  stop  it, 
by  telling  him  that  she  intended  to  have  the  story  out  to- 
night. "Come,  if  it  seems  good  to  you,  David,  to-morrow. 
I  assure  you  that  you  will  do  me  harm  if  you  do.  I  can 
bear  that — I  can  bear  anytliing  you  bid  me ;  but  you  will 
hurt  me  very  much — I  must  tell  you  that."  In  the  end, 
he  gave  in.  He  would  not  come  until  he  was  sent  for; 
he  promised  her. 

Then  he  was  all  for  going,  with  as  little  ceremony  as 
might  be — and  she  all  for  keeping  him  by  her.  All  the 
witcher}'^  of  woman  was  now  at  her  command — and  when 


ORDEAL  BY  BATTLE  309 

she  couldn't  move  him,  she  threw  herself  upon  him,  sob- 
bing and  imploring — "Once,  David — please,  once !  Oh, 
what  shall  I  do !    What  shall  I  do !" 

He  put  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders  and  gently  held 
her  Siway.  "My  dear,  you  mustn't  cry,  you  mustn't,  in- 
deed. No,  no — I'm  very  nearly  lost — but  now  I'll  never 
give  in.  Hermia,  listen  to  me  now.  I'm  strong  again, 
thank  the  Lord.  I  love  you  so-  well  that  I  dare  not  touch 
you  until  we  have  told  our  tale  to  the  world.  You  won't 
ask  me — you  Avill  never  ask  me.  Oh,  I  know  you — you 
will  never  ask  me.     If  you  love  me  now,  you  will  go  in." 

She  stopped  her  crying  at  once,  and  of  her  own  accord 
stepped  back  out  of  his  reach.  "Yes,  I  will  obey  you. 
I  beg  your  pardon.  Good-night."  She  turned  and  went 
to  the  house  without  looking  behind  her. 

Vernour  watched  her  as  far  as  the  light  could  discover 
her  to  him,  and  waited  for  the  door  to  close  upon  her  be- 
fore he  left  the  garden.  Then  he  went  to  the  gap  in  the 
wall — Lady  Hermione's  gap,  not  yet  repaired — and 
jumped  for  it,  pulled  himself  up,  and  dropped  into  the 
park,  almost  at  the  feet  of  a  tall  gentleman,  waiting 
there,  evidently  for  him — a  gentleman  in  a  cocked  hat 
and  cloak,  distinguishable  by  a  white  muffler  round  his 
neck.  It  was  so  obvious,  his  awaiting,  that  Vernour 
waited  also. 

The  stranger  had  a  harsh  and  stem  voice.  "A  word 
with  you — you  who  are  in  and  out  like  a  thief." 

"Who  are  you  that  speak  so  to  me.^" 


310  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

He  was  answered,  "One  with  a  right.  My  name  is 
TurnbuU.    They  call  me  Lord  Rodono." 

Vemour  inclined  his  head  ever  so  slightly.  "I  have 
heard  of  your  lordship.  For  the  sake  of  what  I  have 
heard,  I  will  tell  you  this.  The  last  thief  in  and  out  of 
here  was  Colonel  Chambre,  and  I  have  the  word  of  his 
daughter  for  it." 

This  was  a  palpable  hit.  Lord  Rodono  had  no  immedi- 
ate reply.    When  he  found  one,  he  felt  that  it  was  lame. 

"The  cases  are  not  on  a  level,  Vernour.  Colonel  Cham- 
bre was  my  friend,  and  a  gentleman.  He  was  in  all  re- 
spects her  ladyship's  equal.  You  have  no  such  preten- 
sions, I  understand." 

"I  have  no  pretensions  at  all,  my  lord,  save  those  which 
I  can  claim  from  having  found  favour  in  Miss  Chambre's 
eyes." 

"We  will  leave  names  out,  if  you  please.  I  have  used 
none,  and  will  use  none  but  my  own  and  yours.  I  deny 
your  right  to  anything  but  chastisement." 

"Chastisement,  my  lord !"  said  Vernour  quickly. 
^'Chastisement  from ?" 

"From  me,  sir." 

"What  right  have  you  to  chastise  me?" 

"The  right  which  you  have  to  defend  yourself.  I  am  a 
friend  and  frequenter  of  this  house.  It  is  my  business 
to  defend  any  in  it  who  have  no  other  defenders." 

Vernour  said,  "There  are  other,  more  natural  de- 
fenders," and  gave  his  opponent  an  advantage. 


ORDEAL  BY  BATTLE  311 

"The  natural  defenders  are  dead,  sir,"  said  Rodono; 
"as  you  ought — as  you  seem  to  have  known."  Then  Vcr- 
nour  recovered  his  ground. 

"I  ought  to  have  remembered  that,  my  lord.  You  are 
right  there.  But  they  being  dead,  I  beg  leave  to  tell 
your  lordship  that  I  am  now  the  natural  defender 
of " 

"Damn  you !  be  silent." 

"I  was  silent,"  said  Vernour,  "until  your  lordship  in- 
terrupted me."    Lord  Rodono  bit  his  lip. 

"Vernour,"  he  said  then,  "this  is  to  stop.  Li  my  opin- 
ion, you  have  betrayed  the  greatest  honour  ever  paid  to 
a  man  of  your  station ;  you  have  repaid  generosity  by  the 
basest  ingratitude.  You  have  given  treachery  for  con- 
fidence ;  you  are  a  cheat  and  a  thief." 

"I  cannot  take  those  words  from  you.  Lord  Rodono," 
said  Vernour  very  quietly,  "and  I  must  ask  you  to  with- 
draw them." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Rodono,  "I  shall  repeat  them. 
You  are  a  traitor,  a  cheat,  and  a  thief." 

"]My  lord,"  Vernour  said,  "you  must  fight  me  for 
that." 

"I  fight  with  gentlemen,  sir.     Not  with  butchci's." 

"Don't  let  my  trade  stand  in  your  way,  my  lord.  It 
should  not,  for  it  was  your  own." 

His  lordship  started,  "You  are  impudent,  my  man,  as 
well  as  a  rogue,  I  see." 

"Sir,"  said  Vernour,  "j'ou  were  a  soldier,  I've  been  told. 


312  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

What  difference  there  may  be  between  us  seems  to  be  to 
my  credit.  I  made  sheep  bleed,  you  made  men  bleed.  I 
carved  joints — you  carved  limbs.  You  butchered  your 
own  kind,  you  slew  men.  I  made  men  live.  Now,  my 
lord." 

"Damn  him,  he's  right  there,"  said  Lord  Rodono  to 
himself. 

"jNIy  lord,"  said  Vernour,  "you  force  me  to  make  a 
boast  of  my  trade — ^though  it  is  no  longer  mine — because 
you  disparage  me  upon  grounds  not  worthy  of  your 
occupation.  If  you  had  told  me  I  was  a  vile  fellow — 
a  coward,  a  glutton,  a  beast,  it  would  have  been  better, 
for  you  might  have  believed  it  upon  some  report.  But 
you  know  I  am  none  of  those,  and  you  choose  to  say  that 
my  rank  is  not  of  your  own,  therefore  you  will  not  fight 
me.  I  think  that  you  should  leave  that  plea  to  persons 
who  have  no  other  defence.  I  am  as  honest  as  yourself, 
m}'^  lord,  and  no  readier  with  my  hands,  I  dare  swear. 
Why,  sir,  you  protect  yourself  in  the  manner  of  my  Lord 
Morfa,  who,  having  staked  my  horse  and  damned  me  for 
a  tradesman,  cried  out,  in  his  own  forecourt,  that  he 
dared  such  a  blackguard  lay  hands  on  a  lord.  I  am  no 
more  bound  to  listen  to  you  with  such  a  plea  in  your 
mouth  than  I  was  to  listen  to  him.  If  I  am  to  believe 
you  a  man  of  the  sort,  and  go  from  you  now,  you  will 
call  me  a  coward,  and  say  that  I  shirked  an  encounter. 
If  I  am  to  credit  your  behaviour  of  this  occasion,  such 
blame   from  you   will  be   better   than   your  praise.      I 


ORDEAL  BY  BATTLE  313 

wish  jou  good-night."  He  turned  and  walked  a  few 
steps  of  his  way  home;  but  Lord  Rodono  followed 
him. 

"Vernour,"  he  said,  "I'll  fight  you  if  you  please." 

"'Where.''"  says  Vernour. 

"Why,  we'll  go  in  the  park,  I  think,"  said  his  lordship. 
"W^e'll  be  snug  enough  there." 

"Come  along,  ray  lord,"  the  other  replied.  So  they 
went. 

Across  the  Knightsbridge  Road,  with  its  scattered 
edging  of  little  white  villas  in  their  gardens,  lay  Hyde 
Park,  behind  a  low  fence  of  post  and  rail.  Save  for  a 
transient  cry  now  and  then  from  some  outcast  wandering 
there,  the  place  seemed  a  desert.  Li  the  midst  of  a  grove 
of  elms  these  two  young  men  stripped  to  the  shirt  and 
fought,  but  before  they  began,  Vernour  said,  "Bear  me 
witness,  my  lord,  that  I  do  this  against  my  will.  But 
so  it  is  that  you  have  put  more  scorn  upon  me  than  I  can 
bear,  honoured  as  I  have  been  of  late,  glorified  as  I  am 
now.  For  this  reason  I  must  fight  with  you — but  I'd 
ask  a  favour  of  your  lordship,  to  shake  hands  before  we 
begin." 

"I  won't  refuse  that,"  said  the  young  lord.  They  shook 
hands  and  faced  each  other. 

They  were  much  of  a  height,  but  in  girth  the  butcher 
was  the  finer  man,  and  in  length  of  reach,  in  wind  and 
agility  unquestionably  the  finer.  Lord  Rodono  had 
science — every  man  had  in  that  day ;  this  was  not  the 


314  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

first  time  he  had  stripped  for  battle ;  Vernour  had,  per- 
haps, less — but  he  had  the  cooler  temper. 

They  fought  three  rounds,  during  the  first  of  which 
Rodono  did  all  the  work  he  was  able,  and  Vernour  had 
as  much  as  he  could  do  to  stop  him  without  savagery. 
It  may  have  lasted  four  or  five  minutes,  and  need  not 
have  taken  two.  Rodono's  wind — ^none  too  good — failed 
him,  and  in  the  end  he  fell.  The  second  was  shorter. 
Rodono  made  a  rush,  and  was  stopped ;  he  made  another 
in  which  he  closed ;  a  brief  mill  finished  him,  and  again  he 
fell.  In  the  third  round  Vernour,  who  was  perfectly 
fresh,  forced  the  fighting — ^honestly  wishing  to  be  merci- 
ful— beat  down  his  man's  guard  and  caught  him  under 
the  chin  with  his  left.  Lord  Rodono  fell  once  more,  and 
lay  still. 

"Are  you  hurt,  my  lord.^*  Are  you  hurt?"  Vernour 
was  kneeling  by  him  now,  hovering  and  anxious.  Rodono 
presently  sat  up.  "No,  no,  not  at  all.  You've  done 
your  business  very  well.  Help  me  up,  will  you?"  He 
did ;  the  two  shook  hands. 

"Now  I'll  tell  you,  Vernour,"  said  Rodono,  "that  I  am 
a  suitor  for  the  hand  of  the  lady  to  whom  you  pretend." 
Vernour  said  nothing;  so  he  went  on.  "That  gives  me 
no  right  to  use  words  to  you  which  you  properly  resented 
— and  punished ;  but  I  am  not  able  to  agree  with  you  in 
the  suitability  of  the  arrangement  you  propose.  I  am 
quite  sincere  in  saying  that  I  shall  oppose  this  match 
tooth  and  nail,  simply  on  this  ground,  that  it  will  end  in 


ORDEAL  BY  BATTLE  315 

misery,  and  a  kind  of  life  which  no  lad}^,  brought  up 
as  this  lady  has  been,  ought  to  be  called  upon  to  face. 
What  influence  I  have  will  be  used  against  you,  and  you 
will  wrong  me  if  you  think  I  do  it  for  my  own  pros- 
pects.    You  will  wrong  me,  I  say." 

"I  will  never  wrong  your  lordship,"  said  Vemour 
quickly.  "I  believe  what  you  tell  me.  Now,  let  me  tell 
your  lordship  this.  That  lady  has  given  me  proof  un- 
deniable that  I  have  won  her  heart.  She  has  told  me  that 
I  did  that  without  speaking  with  her  more  than  once, 
or  seeing  her  more  than  thrice.  I  admit  that  I  courted 
her,  after  she  had  paid  me  great  honour,  by  a  way  of 
my  own.  But  I  never  hoped  to  win  her,  and  I  should 
have  continued  my  courtship  until  she  asked  me  to  stop, 
whether  she  was  to  be  lost  or  won.  Courtship !  It  was 
not  that  in  the  beginning — it  was  like  the  homage  you 
pay  to  your  king !  It  was  not  until  I  saw  that  she  wore 
my  flowers " 

"What !"  cried  Rodono,  staring.  "It  was  you — those 
wliite  violets !     By  God,  man,  you're  a  poet,  I  see." 

"You  flatter  me,  my  lord,"  said  Vernour.  "I'm  no  poet. 
But  I  had  to  offer  the  best  thing  I  could  find  to  the 
noblest  being  I  had  ever  dreamed  of.  She'll  have  them 
till  I  die." 

"I  see  that  I've  been  floored  by  a  proper  man,"  said 
Lord  Rodono.  "I'll  think  this  out.  Good-night." 
They  shook  hands  and  parted.  So  much  for  ancient 
chivalry,  not  dead,  the  reader  perceives,  in  1810. 


816  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Men  fight  for  women,  women  for  their  souls.  Hermia, 
in  a  tremble  of  excitement,  waited  for  her  grandmother 
outside  the  house  in  Bruton  Street,  where  her  ladyship 
had  dined,  knowing  full  well  that  her  battle  was  to  come. 
Her  suspense  had  to  endure,  as  best  it  might,  through  an 
hour  or  more  of  chatter  and  gallantry  at  Crowland 
House — Tom  Moore's  effervescence,  Sidney  Smith's 
acidity,  Mr.  Rogers's  astringency,  and  Mr.  Greville's 
asperity.  When  they  were  in  the  great  chariot,  rum- 
bling home  through  the  empty  Kensington  roads,  she 
plunged  into  her  subject  headlong.  She  spoke  too  fast, 
because  her  breath  failed  her.  She  had  learned  her  open- 
ing by  heart,  but  got  it  wrongly. 

"I  think  it  right  to  tell  you,  grandmamma,  that  I  have 
been  asked — that  for  some  time  past  I  have  been  thinking 
— great  attentions  have  been  paid  me  by  a  gentleman — 
and  I  have — I  have  allowed " 

"Your  cousin,  George  Coigne,  I  suppose  you  mean," 
said  her  ladyship ;  but  Hermia  said  that  it  was  not.  "I 
know  that  you  had  the  thought  in  your  head  that  George 
and  I  might  be  married ;  but  as  you  said  nothing  to  me 
about  it,  I  didn't  like  to  tell  you  that  it  was  out  of  the 
question." 

*'0h,  indeed,"  said  Lady  Morfa,  in  her  ordinary  voice. 
Those  who  suppose  that  she  would  alter  that  by  a  quar- 
ter-tone to  answer,  say,  the  Last  Trumpet,  do  not  know 
yet  the  Queen  Mother  of  the  Carylls.  It  was  dark  in  the 
carriage,  and  not  possible  to  see  the  stiffening  old  head, 


ORDEAL  BY  BATTLE  317 

or  the  blinking  of  the  fierce  old  eyes.  "Oh,  indeed ! 
Then,  pray,  who  is  this  gentleman?" 

"It  is  a  gentleman  whom  I  have  met  but  two  or  three 
times,  though  I  know  a  great  deal  of  him — otherwise, 
and  esteem  all  that  I  know.  For  nearly  a  year  he  has 
sent  me  flowers — you  may  have  seen  them." 

"No,  my  dear,"  said  Lady  Morfa,  "I  assure  you 
that  this  is  the  first  I  have  heard  of  it,  though,  no 
doubt,  I  am  the  only  person  in  the  house  who  is 
ignorant." 

"I  fancy  that  you  are,"  said  Miss  Chambre.  "I  have 
worn  them  daily  or  nightly  ever  since  they  began  to 
come.    White  violets." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Lady  Morfa,  "now  I  think  I  have  no- 
ticed them.    Please  to  go  on." 

"The  gift,  the  continuance  of  it,  the  nature  of  it — and 
other  things  about  it — touched  me  greatly.  I  thought 
of  it  often ;  and  so,  when  the  giver  of  it  spoke  to  me, 
I  consented  to  hear  him — and  I  must  consider  myself  en- 
gaged.    Of  course,  I  know  very  well " 

"What  I  suppose  you  know  by  this  time,  though  I  have 
no  proof  of  it,  is  this  gentleman's  name?" 

"Grandmamma,  that's  not  quite  fair,  because,  if  you 
remember,  I  told  you  that  I  knew  a  great  deal  about  him. 
I  know  it  perfectly  well,  and  so  do  you — ^but  you  won't 
like  it  at  all,  I'm  afraid.  I  must  tell  you  first  that  I  have 
thought  very  seriousl}'^  about  it — it  is  very  strange,  but 
I  think  I  have  been — interested  in  him  for  a  long,  long 


318  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

time.  And  now  I  have  passed  him  my  word,  and  can  never 
give  him  up.     He  is  Mr.  David  Vernour." 

Lady  Morfa  started.     "You  are  mad,"  she  said. 

"No,  no,  I  can't  allow  that.    I  love  him  dearly." 

Lady  Morfa  certainly  shivered — ^but  it  was  her  every- 
day voice  which  said,  "I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  this 
news."  And  then  she  said  nothing  more.  Hermia  was 
on  the  point  to  speak  more  than  once — but  each  time 
checked  herself.  Of  what  use  to  speak  ?  She  knew  what 
was  to  be  done  to  her. 

As  the  carriage  entered  the  gates.  Lady  Morfa  did 
speak.  She  said,  "Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  remain 
in  your  room  to-morrow  until  I  see  you.''  I  shall  have 
something  to  say." 

"Yes,  granny,  certainly." 

She  said  also,  "Good-night,  granny,"  as  she  went  up- 
stairs, but  got  no  reply. 

Lady  Morfa  had  a  command  for  her  maid.  "I  wish  to 
speak  to  Moth  here  before  she  goes  to  bed ;  and  to-mor- 
row morning  let  Miss  Moon  see  me  so  soon  as  she  leaves 
her  room." 

Mrs.  Moth  came  fluttering  in  to  find  her  ladyship  bolt 
upright  in  her  chair  before  the  fire. 

"Moth,"  said  the  Queen  Mother,  "you  will  leave  this 
house  to-morrow  morning.  The  steward  will  have  your 
wages  ready  for  you.  You  will  get  no  character  from 
me  but  a  true  one ;  and,  therefore,  I  advise  you  not  to 
apply  for  It." 


ORDEAL  BY  BATTLE  319 

"Very  good,  mj  lady,"  faltered  Mrs.  Moth,  curtseyed, 
and  withdrew. 

To  Harriet  Moon  the  same  fate  was  decreed.  "You 
will  leave  this  house  by  midday.  You  will  have  no  com- 
munication with  any  person  here  except  Mr.  Hanse,  who 
will  pay  you  what  is  due." 

"Yes,  ray  ladj',"  the  brown-eyed  girl  whispered,  curt- 
sej^ed,  and  withdrew.  But  it  is  to  be  stated  of  her  that 
a  communication  was  made — not  with  Mr.  Hanse. 


CHAPTER  XXX 


WHICH  ATTACKS  IN   FLANK 


"IV/rRS.  GEORGE  FOX,  that  bosom  friend  of  Her- 
-^  -■■mia's,  had  come  post-haste  to  town,  anxious  to 
know  the  worst.  She  arrived  two  or  three  days  only  after 
the  girl's  imprisonment,  and  saw  Lady  Morf  a.  A  charm- 
ing, motherly,  kind-eyed  woman,  soft  and  round  and 
purring,  was  Mrs.  George  Fox. 

"Oh,  Lady  Morfa,  I  have  had  such  an  uncomfortable 
letter  from  Hermy  that  I  haven't  been  able  to  rest  for 
worrying  about  it.    Pray,  pray,  tell  me  what  it  means." 

"It  means,"  said  Lady  Morfa,  "that  she  proposes  to 
disgrace  my  name." 

"Oh,  but  that  is  terrible — ^that  is  not  possible !" 

"It  is,  unfortunately,  very  possible,  and  it  would  be 
terrible  if  she  were  to  do  it.     But  she  will  not." 

Mrs.  Fox  was  nearly  speechless,  but  luckily  she  was 
curious. 

"I  feared — when  I  received  her  letter — the  letter,  I  as- 
sure you,  of  one — I  hardly  know — of  one  fixed  in  pur- 
pose— of  one  under  a  terrible  fate!  Lady  Morfa,  who 
is  this  man  ?  She  mentioned  no  name — she  even  said  that 
she  was  not  sure " 

"I  can  imagine  that  she  would  not  care  to  mention  it. 


AN  ATTACK  IN  FLANK  321 

It  is  a  tradesman — a  tradesman's  son.  He  is  a  Radical — 
I  don't  give  that  as  an  excuse,  far  from  it." 

"A  Radical — ah!"  It  was  a  good  deal  of  excuse  to 
Mrs.  Fox.  "Herray's  ideas,  you  know,  Lady  Morfa ! 
Well,  it  is  just  what  poor  Lord  Edward  would  have  done 
— justF' 

"To  my  mind,"  said  her  ladyship,  "it  is  very  much 
what  Lord  Edward  did  do — if  he  didn't  do  worse — but  I 
can  hardly  enter  into  such  matters  with  you." 

"No,"  said  the  anxious  lady,  not  knowing  what  other 
reply  was  expected  of  her. 

"You  can  suppose,"  continued  her  ladyship,  "that  this 
intelligence  was  unwelcome.  I  cannot  say  that  it  was  un- 
expected. Arrangements  had  been  made  for  an  alliance 
eminently  suitable  to  my  granddaughter's  position  and 
prospects.  Sir  George  Coigne,  my  nephew — everything 
that  one  could  wish — a  really  fine  property — a  powerful 
county  influence — ^but  I  need  not  fatigue  you  with  par- 
ticulars." 

"Pray  spare  yourself,  dear  Lady  Morfa." 

"I  have  taken  proper  steps  to  protect  this  unfortunate 
girl  against  herself  and  her  seducers " 

"Oh,    pray,   pray !"    cried   Mrs.    Fox,   but   Lady 

Morfa  was  not  to  be  prayed. 

"I  say  her  seducers,  for  I  think  there  were  more  than 
one.  I  have  dismissed  her  waiting-woman  and  a  young 
person  who  had  stood  for  some  years  in  a  confidential 
capacity  to  me  personally,  but  with  whom,  I  am  sorry 


322  THE  STOOriNG  LADY 

to  say,  Hermia  had  chosen  to  become  unduly  intimate. 
Nothing  could  really  have  been  expected  of  such  an  in- 
timacy but  what  has  happened.  That  person  left  my 
house  the  day  after  I  had  been  told  what  was  going  on. 
I  think  that  she  regretted  the  return  she  had  made  me  for 
a  good  deal  of  kindness,  one  way  with  another.  What  I 
propose  to  do  now  is  to  apply  to  the  Lord  Chancellor  to 
have  the  girl  made  a  ward  of  court." 

"Very  wisely,  no  doubt,"  murmured  Mrs.  Fox — and 
then  with  clasped  hands  and  a  tear  in  the  voice  she 
urged,  "Oh,  Lady  Morfa,  may  I — might  I — see  her.'' 
I  love  her  so  dearly — we  are  such  old  friends." 

"Really,  I  will  ask  you  not  to  hope  for  that  at  pres- 
ent," said  her  ladyship.  "No  good  could  be  expected — ■ 
at  present — from  any  such  kindness  as  I  am  sure  you 
meditate.  I  have  not  yet  seen  her  myself.  Seclusion, 
thought  (I  hope),  repentance " 

"Prayer,"  the  other  lady  suggested,  at  random. 

"Prayer?  All,  no  doubt — very  right  and  proper,"  said 
her  ladyship  loftily — but  she  didn't  like  it.  Any  sug- 
gestion that  application  could  be  addressed  elsewhere 
than  to  herself  offended  her  a  good  deal. 

That  really  closed  the  discussion.  Mrs.  Fox  took  her 
leave,  with  the  statement  that  she  should  remain  in  town 
for  some  few  weeks — at  the  house  of  her  cousin.  Lord 
Naliir — a  respectable,  though  Irish  viscount. 

A  particular  bitterness  of  Lady  Morfa's  had  not  been 


AN  ATTACK  IN  FLANK  323 

mentioned  by  her,  and  could  never  have  been  mentioned 
by  her  to  any  Mrs.  Fox.  It  is  doubtful  whether  a  Marquis 
of  Badlesmere — a  Botetort  and  her  brother — or  an  Hon- 
ourable Venerable — an  Archdeacon  and  a  Caryll — could 
have  been  told  a  secret  so  mortifying.  It  was  that  both 
her  son  and  nephew — the  head  of  the  Carylls  and  Sir 
George  Coigne — had  shown  much  more  concern  over  the 
dismissal  of  Miss  Harriet  Moon  than  for  Hermia  Mary's 
desperate  disgrace.  Lord  INIorfa  had  turned  very  white 
when  he  heard  it.  At  the  Vemour  story  he  had  chuckled 
—"What  a  go !"  he  had  said.  "Hope  that  stilted  beast 
Sandgate  will  feel  happy.  Nastyish  for  Tom — eh, 
ma'am?  By  Gad,  I  must  let  Prinny  know  about 
this.  That  man  Vemour — did  you  hear,  ma'am? — he's 
a  champion,  by  Gad !  He  is,  though.  He  had  a  battle 
on  Stockbridge  Down  with  Exeter  Jack,  and  knocked 
him  out  in  three  rounds !  No  wonder  Beauty  got  his 
nose  dabbed!     ^ly  word,  though — Hermy,  eh?     Well, 

that  beats  the  cocks — by  Gad,  it  does "    And  more 

to  the  same  elementary  effect. 

But  when  his  mother  told  him  of  condign  punishment 
upon  the  sly  Moon,  he  turned  sick  white.  "You've  done 
that!     You've  sent  her  packing!     Oh,  I  don't — I  can't 

!"    Then,  after  a  pause,  "I  tell  3^ou,  ma'am,  you've 

made  mischief.     You'd  no  business  to  interfere." 

"Interfere,  Roderick  I" 

"Well — what  I  mean  is — you've  made  mischief — dam- 
nable mischief !    No,  no — I  can't  hear  you — I  can't  talk 


SM  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

about  Miss  Moon  to  you.  Look  here,  ma'am — that  was 
an  infernal  shame !  She  was  innocent  as  a  babe  unborn 
— and  you  know  that  very  well.  You  never  liked  her — 
you  know  you  didn't ;  and  she  was  afraid  of  you,  and 
showed  it,  and  you  bulhed  her.  Poor  little  girl — ^poor 
little  Harriet !  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  ma'am,  Pm  upset — 
I'm  downright  ill  at  such  infem — at  such  injustice. 
Tyranny,  I  call  that — rank  tyranny!" 

"Roderick,  Roderick — my  son !  what  are  you  saying  to 
me?" 

"I'm  telling  you  what  I  think  of  what  you've  chosen  to 
do.  Wreak  your  vengeance  on  the  family,  ma'am,  if 
you  please.  You've  shocked  me — I  wouldn't  have  had 
such  a  thing  done  in  my  house  for  ten  thousand  pound 
— I  wish  you  joy  of  your  work.  Lady  Morfa — and  good- 
morning  to  you."  He  had  gone  out  of  the  room — she 
heard  him  shouting  for  his  man — and  she  had  not  been 
able  to  move.  His  valet  came  anxiously  to  her.  "His 
lordship's  compliments,  my  lady,  and  he  wishes  for  the 
keys  of  the  corridor."  Positively  so ;  and  she  had  sent 
them.  He  must  have  gone  to  see  Hennia — and  she  let 
him  go.  He  had  left  the  house — his  trunks  (a  round 
dozen  of  them)  followed  with  his  secretary  in  a  hackney- 
coach,  his  valet  on  the  box — and  she  not  able  to  move ; 
and  she  had  seen  no  more  of  him.  This  made  her  very 
ill ;  but  Sir  George's  tears — yes,  his  round  eyes  had 
brimmed  over,  the  man — a  Botetort  and  a  baronet — 


AN  ATTACK  IN  FLANK  325 

had  fairly  blubbered  over  the  wrongs  of  a  Moon — this, 
very  fortunately,  strengthened  her.  She  found  herself 
again,  as  they  say;  and  the  close  imprisonment  of 
Heraiia  Mary  went  on. 

The  child's  friends,  meantime,  were  active,  for  the 
story  was  all  about  the  town.  Tom  Creevy  was  heard 
whispering  and  chuckhng  about  it  to  Mr.  Sheridan  at 
Brooks's ;  but  he  stopped  when  Lord  Sandgate  came  into 
the  room.  "Sandgate's  been  hit" — he  told  his  friend — 
"badly  hit,  he's  been.  I  happen  to  know,"  What  was 
there  Tom  Creevy  did  not  happen  to  know?  Mighty 
little,  I  suspect. 

It  was  Mrs.  Fox  who  took  the  tale  to  Lady  Grizel — 
to  whom  her  brother  Rodono  had  vouchsafed  nothing  of 
it;  but  for  all  that  Lady  Grizel  had  had  it,  in  a  letter 
from  the  disgraced  girl  herself — a  letter  written  that 
first  night  of  her  incarceration,  and  actually  in  Moth's 
pocket  at  the  moment  of  her  dismissal ;  and  IMoth  had  re- 
lated all  that  the  letter  did  noL  Hermia's  letter  had 
been  very  short: 

"Dearest  Grizel:  I  must  tell  you  how  proud  and 
happy  I  am  to  have  won  the  love  and  respect  of  ]\Ir.  Ver- 
nour.  I  have  been  engaged  to  him  for  ten  days,  and 
every  moment  since  then  has  but  added  to  the  honour  he 
has  done  me.  I  hope  I  shall  make  him  a  good  and  obe- 
dient wife.     I  shall  try  my  hardest,  and  know  he  will  be 


326  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

very  patient.     Granny  is  horrified — ^but  that  makes  no 
difference.     With  fondest  love, 

"Ever  your  Hebmy. 
"P.S. — If  you  think  that  my  news  would  interest  dear 
Lord  Drem  and  your  brother,  will  you  tell  them  how 
proud  I  am?" 

That  was  a  difficult  letter  to  deal  with.  Old  Lord  Drem 
said  that  he  didn't  understand  it;  such  things  had  not 
been  done  in  his  time — at  least,  he  could  only  recollect 
one  case — that  of  Sophia  Weyburn  who  had  married  a 
Glasgow  notary — and  there  had  been  cogent  reasons  for 
that.  All  he  could  say  was  that  it  pointed  to  a  very  ex- 
ceptional young  man,  or  a  very  exceptional  young  lady. 
Lord  Rodono  said  nothing,  but  his  sister  saw  the  chill 
settle  on  his  blue  eyes.  As  for  herself,  her  feelings  may 
perhaps  be  gathered  from  her  reply — which  never 
reached  its  address: 

"Dearest  :  I  can  hardly  answer  your  beautiful  letter — 
for  beautiful  it  is,  whatever  one  may  think  of  its  news. 
My  dear,  what  am  I  to  say  about  that?  All  I  can  urge 
upon  you  is  reflection,  serious  and  ample  reflection.  I 
know  your  ideas,  how  truly  democratic  you  are,  and  per- 
haps I  ought  to  be  able  to  follow  you,  and  indeed  in 
opinion  I  do — ^but  in  judginent,  dearest  love,  I  cannot, 
at  present.  How  much  can  you,  how  little  do  you  not, 
know  of  Mr.  V.?     Pray  think  of  this,  and  do  nothing 


AN  ATTACK  IN  FLANK  327 

precipitate.  Dear  papa  was  very  kind.  You  know  the 
Drum-Major's  way!  I  have  told  Tom — I  thought  it 
kinder.  He  said  nothing — but  he  was  very  much  moved. 
At  any  rate,  you  have  three  friends  in  this  house — and 
always  will  have.  Count  upon  us,  my  love,  I  implore 
you.  I  shall  try  to  prevail  upon  Lady  M.  to  let  me  see 
you  for  a  minute — or  even  to  speak  with  you  through 
the  key-hole!    Darling  Hermy,  my  heart  is  wae  for  3'ou. 

"Grizel." 

This  letter  was  not  opened,  but  was  left  with  otliers  ad- 
dressed to  the  prisoner  on  her  ladyship's  escritoire. 

Upon  that  same  escritoire,  upon  a  day  to  be  shortly 
named,  lay  two  other  letters  in  Lady  Morfa's  hand, 
scaled  with  the  Caryll  seal,  one  addressed  to  Thomas 
Vemour — Brook  Street — and  the  other  to  the  Marquis 
of  Badlesmere,  K.G.,  of  which  letter  I  shall  not  speak 
further  than  to  say  that  it  requested  that  nobleman  to 
invoke  the  powers  of  Lord  Eldon  in  her  favour.  The 
letter  to  Vemour  the  elder  ran  thus : 

"The  Countess  of  Morfa  has  to  inform  T.  Vernour  that 
his  visits  to  Caryll  House  for  custom  must  instantly 
cease.  Her  ladyship  believes  that  Vernour  will  under- 
stand the  reason  of  this  order,  and  has  further  to  say 
that  any  appearance  of  either  Thomas  or  David 
Vemour  will  be  followed  by  an  action  for  trespass.  The 
Countess  of  Morfa  cannot  condescend  to  particulars  of 
offences    peculiarly    abominable    which    have    rendered 


328  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

summary  measures  necessary.  Caryll  House,  April  30th, 
1810." 

Now  for  the  reason  why  that  letter  was  never  sent. 

On  the  morning  of  April  30tli — Hermia  having  been 
imprisoned  for  some  ten  days — a  Mr.  Custance  called  at 
Caryll  House  and  was  introduced  into  Lady  Morfa's 
room;  a  grave,  elderly  man,  considerably  bald,  low- 
voiced,  sententious,  and  a  lawyer.  He  made  a  ceremoni- 
ous bow  at  the  door ;  he  advanced,  as  it  were,  soft- footed 
to  the  middle  of  the  room;  bowed  again,  with  his  hat 

covering  his  heart.     "Madam,"  he  said,  "my  lady " 

and  then  he  came  near  to  the  table  and  made  his  final 
bow. 

"Be  seated,  sir,"  said  Lady  Morfa,  but  with  a  wave  of 
his  hat  he  excused  himself. 

"My  lady,"  he  said,  "I  am  my  Lord  Morfa's  accredited 
agent  in  a  matter  of  some  consequence  to  his  lordship 
and  of  some  interest  to  yourself."  Lady  Morfa  did  not 
look  at  him. 

"Lord  Morfa's  agents  are  familiar  to  me,  by  name,  at 
least.    I  don't  recollect  that  yours  is  one  of  them." 

"My  lady,"  said  Mr.  Custance,  and  produced  his  pocket- 
book,  and  drew  from  it  a  card,  "here  are  my  credentials 
— or  some  of  them.  The  writing  upon  this  card  will  be 
very  familiar  to  your  ladyship."  The  card  bore  the 
name  of  Mr.  Oliver  Custance,  Doctors'  Commons,  and 
over  that  "Introduced  upon  my  particular  affairs. 
Morfa." 


AN  ATTACK  IN  FLANK  329 

Lady  Morfa  moistened  her  lips  as  she  put  the  card 
down.  "I  will  listen  to  you,  sir,"  she  said,  "but  must  beg 
you  to  be  brief." 

"Madam,"  said  Mr.  Custance,  "I  will  be  brief.  I  need 
not,  I  think,  refer  at  any  length  to  the  circumstances — 
distressing  as  they  must  have  been — under  which  my 
noble  client  felt  it  his  duty " 

"No,  sir,"  said  her  ladyship,  "you  need  not.  I  beg  tliat 
you  will  make  no  reference  whatever  to  any  matter  which 
is  not  your  immediate  concern.  I  asked  you  to  be  brief, 
and  you  threaten  to  be  lengthy.  Have  the  goodness  to 
inform  me  of  your  actual  business  here." 

"My  lady "    Mr.  Custance  was  disturbed. 

"Your  business,  sir,  if  j^ou  please." 

*'I  will  obey  you,  my  lady.  I  have  the  honour  to  inform 
your  ladyship  that  your  son,  my  Lord  Morfa,  was  mar- 
ried yesterday  by  special  license  to  Miss  Harriet  INIoon. 
Lord  and  Lady  Morfa  have  repaired  to  Brighton  for  a 
short  visit,  but  propose  returning  to  town  shorth' — I 
think  to  a  house  in  Curzon  Street,  but  am  not  yet  fully 

advised.    My  lady,  I  regret  this  abrupt "    There  h.e 

stopped,  because  he  observed  that  Lady  ^Morfa's  head 
was  sunk  and  nodding  helplessly  to  her  breast.  Dull 
purple  suffused  her  cheeks,  her  breath  came  shuddering 
and  thick.  Mr.  Custance  crossed  the  room  rapidly  and 
pulled  the  bell.  Assistance  was  not  long  in  coming.  Her 
ladyship  was  got  to  bed ;  and  Hcrmia  Mary  left  her 
prison  to  watch  by  her  grandmother's  side. 


330  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

From  that  silent  bedside,  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 
she  wrote  to  Vernour : 

"My  grandmamma  is  very  ill,  and  I  must  not  leave  her 
yet,  though  she  has  been  cruel  to  you  and  to  me.  You 
have  my  heart,  and  can  direct  my  will,  but  I  know  that 
you  will  ask  nothing  of  me  which  I  ought  not  to  do. 
Write  to  me,  and  tell  me  that  you  trust  me.  Nothing  can 
keep  me  from  you  when  you  call  me.     Hermia  Mary." 

Next  day  she  was  in  the  arms  of  Mary  Fox. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

WHICH  MRS.  GEORGE  FOX  UNDERSTANDS 

T  ADY  BARWISE  was  extremely  surprised  to  find 
■"-^herself  in  any  sort  of  agreement  with  a  Mrs.  George 
Fox.  "The  Chambre  connection — but  really  a  person  of 
proper  feeling.  That  most  unhappy  child — impossible 
that  she  should  remain  here  for  a  moment.  Dearest 
mamma  is  so  sensitive — and  they  say  that  the  Prince — so 
altogether  I  was  thankful  to  get  rid  of  her;  and  IMrs. 
Fox  was  perfectly  reasonable,  and  very  kind  about  it." 
IMrs.  Fox  had,  in  fact,  jumped  at  a  proposal  which  she 
would  have  hesitated  herself  to  open.  The  culprit  was 
given  over  to  her ;  she  had  her  safely  now  in  her  Bromp- 
ton  lodgings,  where  for  a  time  she  was  seldom  out  of 
her  arms. 

After  the  first  cooings  and  tear-minglings  —  with 
"There,  then,  my  precious,  you  are  safe  with  your 
Mary — cry  your  fill" — she  had  attempted  gentle  ad- 
monitions of  that  sort  which  any  good  woman,  with  how- 
soever fine  an  ardour  she  have  embraced  matrimony,  al- 
ways feels  constrained  to  give.  No  wife,  we  may  sup- 
pose, ever  forgets  the  plunge  into  the  dark  which  has 
preceded  her  happiness ;  and  no  girl  ever  believes  in  it. 
Therefore,  so  long  as  Mrs.  Fox  confined  herself  to  plati- 


332  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

tude  her  doctrine  was  accepted  with  dociKty.  Her  friend 
was  too  young  to  deal  with  generahties,  and  accepted 
them  as  the  insignia  of  matrons.  But  when  the  good 
lady  was  forced,  by  honest  belief,  to  go  further,  when  it 
became  evident  that  she  frankly  deplored  the  betrothal, 
Miss  Hermia  became  the  amazon;  and  it  was  a  fierce 
young  face  that  hfted  from  Mary's  bosom,  and  a  pair 
of  scornful  eyes  which  made  Mary's  to  quail. 

"Unworthy  !    You  call  him  unworthy  ! " 

"His  position,  dearest.  Think  of  his  position — and 
yours ! " 

"Why  should  I  think  of  what  my  mother  gave  no 
thought  to?  Would  you  have  called  my  father  un- 
worthy?" 

"Your  father,  my  darling,  was  my  own  cousin." 

"Well,  everybody  must  be  somebody's  cousin,  I  sup- 
pose. If  I  am  to  be  careful  of  your  cousins,  Mary,  I  do 
think  you  should  remember  ]Mr.  Vernour's." 

"Your  father  was  undoubtedly  a  gentleman,"  said  Mrs. 
Fox. 

To  which  she  replied,  "And  so  is  Mr.  Vemour,  without 
any  kind  of  doubt." 

"Not  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  Hermy." 

The  girl's  own  eyes  grew  dreamy,  and  her  voice  sounded 
tired.  *'The  world!  I  had  forgotten  it.  Where  is  the 
world?  Inside  the  Gary  11  House  gates,  I  believe — de- 
fended by  Jacob  Jacobs.  Surely  I  came  out  of  it  when 
I  came  to  you ! "     After  which  there  was  nothing  imme- 


MRS.  FOX  UNDERSTANDS  333 

diately  to  be  done — by  the  likes  of  Mrs.  Fox — but  to  kiss 
her ;  and  presently  to  take  up  the  burden  again. 

There  was,  you  see,  the  romantic  side  to  this  affair ;  and 
Mary  Fox,  a  long  and  patient  traveller  in  the  Pays  du 
Tendre,  was  allured  into  occasional  peeps  at  her  old 
haunts — whose  whispering  groves,  whose  rills  and  thick- 
ets still  had  power  to  charm.  Having  the  case  before 
her,  put  with  an  impassioned  oratory  which  I  shall  not 
attempt  to  rehearse,  she  had  to  confess  that  conduct 
more  irreproachably  delicate  than  that  of  the  violet- 
bearer  could  not  be  conceived.  It  partook  of  the  mar- 
vellous, even ;  for  how  did  a  Brook  Street  tradesman — 
and  of  his  trade  of  all  trades  in  the  world ! — how  did  such 
a  one  conjure  up  white  violets  all  the  year  round.''  Pass, 
as  Hermia  calmly  passed,  the  nursery-gardener  at  Felt- 
ham — to  what  research  it  pointed !  To  what  an  instinct 
for  the  elegant !  Yes,  and  to  what  nice  passion !  When 
she  was  told  as  a  fact  that  her  Hermy  had  fallen  in  love 
with  a  posy  of  flowers,  she  had,  in  her  present  mood,  no 
difficulty  in  believing  it.  She  could  understand  that,  she 
could  imagine  it.  There  was  Boccaccio's  tale — Lisabetta 
fondling  her  pot  of  basil :  yes,  she  could  thrill  at  such  a 
tale !  But  by  so  much  as  you  heighten  the  lure  of  that, 
by  so  much  the  more  must  the  truth  revolt.  When  the 
mystery  was  unlocked,  when  the  veiled  lover  stood  before 
her  as  he  was — what  then .?  Here  her  young  friend  con- 
founded her  by  a  dazzling  admission,  for  she  simply  said 
that  she  then  knew  she  had  been  in  love  before — "be- 


334  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

cause,  Mary,  I  was  so  happy,  and  liked  to  think  of  him." 
Yes,  yes,  indeed,  that  was  the  way  of  it — that  was  the 
glorious  estate.  One  "liked  to  think  of  him" !  But  if 
one  had  been  thinking  of  a  violet-bearer,  clothed  in  the 
mossy  fragrance  of  his  tribute,  shy  and  rare  himself  as 
that  in  which  he  hid — and  then — oh,  heaven ! — the  white 
flowers  brushed  aside,  he  stood  up,  garbed  in  his  dreadful 
uniform !    What  then,  child  ? 

"Then,"  said  Hermia,  "I  remembered  that  I  had  liked 
to  think  of  him  before." 

"Before !    Then  you  had — oh,  my  dearest ! " 

"I  had  seen  him,  of  course,  Mary.  He  was  tTie  very 
first  person  I  saw  when  I  came  to  London."  And  thus  it 
gradually  appeared  to  have  been  a  case  of  love  at  first 
sight — kindled  by  a  chance  spark — a  vision  of  proud 
eyes  and  a  stiff  head ;  blown  upon  by  a  visit  to  Brook 
Street ;  set  ablaze  by  subsequent  meetings — ah  me ! 
"Harriet  told  me  long  ago  that  I  was  interested  in  him 
because  I  admired  him,"  she  said.  "I  was  angry  with 
her  and  thought  she  had  a  common  mind ;  but  you  see 
that  she  was  right.  I  didn't  know  it  .  .  .  but  she  was 
perfectly  right." 

She  was  able  to  speak  of  Brook  Street  by-and-by — 
almost  to  explain  Brook  Street.  She  had  been  praised 
for  courage,  she  said,  and  named  Lord  Sandgate;  as  a 
matter  of  truth,  she  had  been  "dreadfully  afraid.  But  it 
had  to  be  done,  you  see,"  she  went  on.  "I  couldn't  help 
doing  it — I  was  drawn  there — and  now — and  now  I  know 


MRS.  FOX  UNDERSTANDS  335 

why."  Democracy,  indeed!  Mary  Fox  began  to  know 
why,  too. 

Talking  of  that  visit,  she  skirted  the  inner  truth,  or 
delayed  her  search  for  it.  She  said  that  her  prevalent 
feeling,  while  she  waited  there  in  the  shop,  had  been  one 
of  burning  humiliation  that  she  should  be  doomed,  in  her 
poor  finery,  to  bring  disgrace  upon  an  honest  place. 
"Imagine  it ! "  she  cried.  "My  silly  silks — my  silly  shoes 
which  dared  not  be  wetted — my  feathers  and  ribbons! 
And  then  he  came  riding  up,  full  of  real  business,  dressed 
for  it " 

"Ah ! "  Mrs.  Fox  gasped. 

"Dressed  for  it — ^his  working  clothes — no  pretence 
upon  him ! "  She  turned  her  indignant  face  to  her  friend. 
*'WTiat  right  had  I — what  right  has  any  person  in  the 
world,  Mary,  to  act  a  doll  at  a  child's  tea-party.'*  To 
play  about,  to  trifle,  and  hinder  the  work  of  the  world ! 
Oh,  I  was  utterly  ashamed !  I  felt  that  I  was  despicable, 
worse  than  nothing  before  him." 

"But  he  did  not,  I  imagine." 

"He  was  more  than  kind,  he  was  noble;  but  he  could 
not  deny  his  own  nature.  He  could  not  stoop  to  me,  or 
make  concessions.  That  is  so  wonderful  in  him,  I  think. 
I  had  seen  it  before  when  he  stood  up  alone — inside  the 
gates  here — doing  justice — inflexibly — with  blood  on  his 
face.  I  felt  the  power  of  him  break  me  down.  I  could 
have  knelt  to  him." 

"Dearest,  I  fear,  I  fear  that  you  did." 


336  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"No,  indeed.  He  would  not  have  allowed  it;  and  that 
made  it  all  the  worse,  that  I  must  pretend  to  confer  and 
he  to  receive  a  favour.  Favour  from  me  to  him!  Oh, 
Mary,  I  went  home  burning — to  my  degradation,  as  I 
supposed.  To  be  driven  about  in  a  carriage,  splashing 
mud  in  the  face  of  honesty  with  my  hoofs  and  wheels ;  to 
be  herded  in  a  pack,  among  men  who  drank  too  much 
and  women  who  wore  too  little ;  to  gape  at  a  conjurer,  at 
pictures,  at  women  jigging;  to  be  fed  by  powdered 
giants,  and  be  sung  to  by  hired  Italians !  What  a  life 
to  lead  in  a  busy  world !  I  was  spared  all  that  by  grand- 
mamma, who  locked  me  up — and  gave  me  time  to  think  of 
him.  But  in  a  day  or  two  I  had  to  go  on  with  it  all,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  But,  Mary,  something  had  hap- 
pened, something  very  wonderful.  ..."  She  frowned 
at  Mary  Fox,  biting  her  red  lip.  "I  don't  see  why  one 
should  do  all  this — I  don't  see  how  one  dare  do  it,  if  one 
feels,  if  one  knows  that  men  and  women  are  leading  real 
lives  outside ;  working,  being  happy  in  their  work.  They 
sing,  Mary,  as  they  go  about  their  business.  You  hear 
them  in  the  streets.  Some  of  them  used  to  whistle  as  they 
came  to  the  house,  and  Jacobs  always  stopped  them  at 
the  gates.  No  whistling  at  Caryll  House — a  sort  of 
church !  Oh,  it's  all  wrong,  it's  all  wrong !  But  now  it's 
over,  for  me." 

There  spoke,  perhaps,  her  father's  child,  and  her 
mother's ;  offspring  of  that  night's  work  in  '88,  when 
the  silken  lady  of  the  Carylls  rode  pillion  in  the  dark 


MRS.  FOX  UNDERSTANDS  337 

behind  the  man  who  had  dared  to  break  his  sword.    Had 
not  this  girl,  too,  caught  at  Reahty  by  the  knees? 

The  struggle  went  on  with  varying  fortunes.  Mary 
Fox  was  only  half  convinced,  when  the  little  sophist 
gained  an  unlooked-for  arm  for  her  warfare.  She  was 
able  to  confront  the  poor  lady  with  a  dilemma  when  the 
Earl  of  Morfa  returned  to  town  and  brought  his  countess 
with  him.  The  noble  pair  took  a  furnished  house  in 
Curzon  Street — since  nothing  could,  of  course,  be  done 
to  the  dowager's  detriment — and  there  they  throve,  in 
spite  of  all  conclusions.  The  Family  remained  true  to  its 
patriarchal  principle,  that  it  is  the  male  who  ennobles. 
What  then  ?  A  Countess  Harriet  is  certainly  a  countess, 
while  a  Mrs.  Hermia  is  a  butcher's  wife.  Mary  Fox, 
accepting  that,  gave  her  beloved  a  rhetorical  advantage 
which  she  made  the  most  of.  Take  hold  of  which  prong 
you  will,  here  are  two,  says  Hermia.  Either  Harriet, 
who  had  been  nobody,  was  made  somebody  by  Uncle 
Roddy ;  or  Uncle  Roddy,  who  was  supposed  to  be  some- 
body, was  made  nobody  by  Harriet  Moon.  In  the  for- 
mer case,  why  should  she  and  Vemour  between  them  not 
be  somebody?  In  the  latter,  why  should  Uncle  Badles- 
mere  and  Uncle  John  Botetort,  and  Aunt  Carinthia,  and 
Aunt  Barwise,  and  Aunt  Sarah  Coigne,  and  even  poor 
dear  Uncle  Bernard,  all  flock  to  Curzon  Street  and  pay 
their  respects  to — nobody  ?  Here  were  two  horns  for  the 
impaling  of  jMary  Fox,  who,  for  her  part  (as  the  lawyers 
say),  "confessed  and  avoided."     She  took  Hermia,  in- 


338  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

deed,  on  the  girl's  initiative,  to  wait  upon  the  new  coun- 
tess, an  agitating  encounter  in  more  ways  than  one. 
There  was  quite  an  assembly ;  the  Earl  not  present. 
Countess  Harriet  used  her  fine  eyes  with  tact.  She  was 
exceedingly  kind  to  her  former  friend ;  but  naturally 
nothing  was  said  about  Hermia's  affairs  or  her  own. 
There  were  no  confidences,  and  never  could  be  again — 
because  they  had  been  all  upon  Harriet's  side,  and  nearly 
all  untrue.  It  was  Miss  Chambre's  first  appearance  in 
the  world  since  her  disgrace-,  and  she  bore  the  trial  with 
a  simplicity  and  complete  absence  of  shamefacedness 
which  enchanted  Mrs.  Fox.  But  women  are  not  self- 
conscious.  Look,  for  instance,  at  the  Countess  Harriet 
chatting  with  Sir  George  Coigne,  and  contrast  the  two. 

"Harriet  told  fibs,"  Hermia  owned  as  they  walked  home- 
wards, over  the  park  to  Brompton,  "and  very  nearly 
made  me  tell  one.  I  suppose  she  had  to  defend  herself 
with  what  she  had.  And  she  always  had  fibs,  I  fancy. 
She  certainly  led  me  to  suppose  that  she  would  marry 
George  Coigne — and  him,  too,  poor  man." 

So  much,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  of  the  Countess 
Harriet,  who  had  not,  perhaps,  done  so  badly  for  her 
little  hand.  Sir  George  Coigne,  the  gossips  say,  was 
there  a  great  deal ;  but  she  never  gave  him  the  slightest 
encouragement.  I  believe  that  she  made  Earl  Roderick 
an  excellent  wife.    And  now  for  serious  news. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

IN  WHICH   THE   LAW  INTERVENES 

T  T  was  Ranald  who  told  it  to  her — after  she  had  been  a 
■*■  week  at  Brompton — that  Vemour  and  two  others  with 
him  had  been  arrested,  and  lay  in  Newgate,  for  inciting 
to  riot  at  the  Westminster  meeting.  It  touched  his  own 
honour,  he  said,  nearly ;  he  had  done  his  best  to  get  in- 
cluded in  the  charge.  It  had  been  his  meeting,  convened 
in  his  own  constituency,  on  behalf  of  his  colleague,  for 
which  he  alone  was  responsible.  He  had  offered  to  stand 
his  trial,  but  no  notice  had  been  taken ;  and  neither  he 
nor  Wardle  would  be  touched.  Of  course,  he  would  de- 
fend the  men — she  might  rely  upon  him. 

Her  calmness  was  remarkable ;  for  though  she  had  not 
had  a  word  from  her  lover  since  her  avowal  and  disgrace, 
and  for  the  two  days  before  this  news  had  not  received 
her  violets,  she  had  been  unalterably  cheerful,  extraordi- 
narily happy — singing  about  the  house,  sewing,  gossip- 
ing with  Mary  Fox,  shopping— and  had  seen  no  omens 
even  in  the  absence  of  her  flowers.  The  intelligence 
ought  to  have  knocked  her  over,  she  ought  to  have  winced 
or  paled;  but  it  did  neither.  On  the  contrary,  her 
colour  had  quickened,  her  eyes  flashed.  "Absurd ! "  she 
had  said.     "He  will  be  acquitted."     Then  Ranald  was 


340  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

bound  to  tell  her  his  fears.  Sandgate  and  he  would  do 
all  that  was  possible,  but  she  ought  to  prepare  herself 
for  a  bad  verdict.  There  had  undoubtedly  been  what 
amounted  to  a  riot ;  windows  had  been  broken ;  an  in- 
former had  been  mauled,  a  constable  hurt,  not  seriously, 
but  they  would  make  the  most  of  it.  Vemour  had  been 
the  first  to  speak  of  spies ;  he  had  pointed  his  finger, 
and  mutterings  had  followed.  Not  much  in  that,  but  it 
would  count  against  him.  The  worst  of  all  was  that 
Ministers  intended  to  get  a  conviction.  They  had  been 
after  one  for  years,  ever  since  old  Tooke's  triumph ;  and 
the  haste  with  which  they  were  pushing  on  now  showed 
what  they  thought  of  their  chances.  There  would  also 
be  other  influences  at  work — she  would  understand  that. 

She  did.     "You  mean  my  family's?" 

He  nodded.  "Badlesmere  is  dead  against  you.  And,  of 
course,  her  ladyship "    But  she  stopped  him  there. 

"Grandmamma  knows  nothing  of  it.  I  am  sure  of 
that." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  hope  you  are  right.  Then  Roddy 
will  be  generous,  perhaps." 

"Generous,  Mr.  Ranald ! " 

"Well,  your  Vernour  pommelled  him,  you  know,  m  his 
own  court — and  Roddy's  young,  and  as  sensitive  as  most 
youths." 

She  waived  Roddy  and  his  youth,  having  other  things 
to  think  of. 

"Mr.  Ranald,"  she  asked,  "ought  I  to  go  to  him?" 


THE  LAW  INTERVENES  341 

"He  won't  hear  of  it.  He  didn't  want  me  to  tell  you 
of  this — in  fact,  he  said,  'Here's  the  end  of  it,'  directly 
he  saw  me.  I  talked  him  over  into  seeing  that  you  must 
needs  have  the  news  sooner  or  later — and  better  from  a 
friend  than  an  enemy.  But  he  has  a  horror  of  involving 
you  in  the  business,  as  is  only  reasonable;  and  I  think 
that  3"ou  should  humour  him." 

Her  eyes  were  full.  "Of  course,  I  am  involved — of 
course,  it  is  my  right  to  be  involved.  But  I  won't  go  un- 
til he  sends  for  me.     How  long  before  they ?" 

"Not  long.  They  are  in  a  hurry.  He'll  be  taken  before 
the  magistrates  in  a  month,  and  committed.  They'll 
oppose  bail,  undoubtedly,  but  we'll  try  for  it." 

"And  then .?" 

"Trial  next  term,  for  certain.  Ellenborough  sits — that 
is  settled." 

She  stared  at  the  day,  and  at  the  days  to  come.  "Lord 
Ellenborough!     It  means — no  hope." 

"Ahnost  that — in  these  times.  You  will  need  all  your 
courage — courage  for  two." 

"I  have  the  courage  of  two,"  she  said.  "I  have 
his." 

She  wrote  him  a  letter,  which  Ranald  took.  "One  word 
from  you,  and  I  come.  I  am  free  here  with  jNIary  Fox, 
who  would  take  me  to  and  from  3^our  prison.  I  am  in 
your  hands,  at  your  knees,  and  have  no  fear  but  to  dis- 
please or  trouble  you.  Oh,  my  love,  I  am  proud  that  I 
can  sit  here  and  wait.    Hermia  Mary — j-ours," 


342  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Ranald  put  it  into  his  breast-pocket.  "He  shall  have 
it,  trust  me.  Let  me  say  that  I  admire  your  spirit,  and 
find  it  well  mated.  Good-bye  for  the  moment."  He 
kissed  her  hand. 

It  was  that  high  spirit  that  won  over  Mary  Fox,  and 
vanquished  all  her  doubts.  No  tears,  no  brooding,  no 
quarter  asked  of  heaven.  "If  they  imprison  him,  he 
will  bear  it,  and  so  must  I.  The  time  will  pass — we  are 
both  quite  young.  And  in  any  case  we  must  have  waited. 
I  am  grandmamma's  property  for  five  years — no,  for 
four  years  more.  That  means  that  I  should  have  been 
a  sort  of  prisoner — not  allowed  to  speak  or  write  to  him. 
Well,  I  should  have  borne  that,  and  so  would  he."  This 
girl  was  of  heroic  build — this  girl  of  the  thrust  bosom 
and  starry  eyes.  She  won  friends  fast,  as  the  story  be- 
came known,  though  they  were  not  of  the  kind  who 
could  have  been  acceptable  at  Caryll  or  Crowland  House. 
Of  her  old  allies,  Lady  Grizel  was  for  her.  Lord  Sand- 
gate,  of  course,  and  Ranald.  Sir  Francis  wrote  to  her 
from  the  Tower,  and  the  veteran  Parson  Tooke  from  his 
Wimbledon  cavern.  These  things  elated  her — or  she 
made  the  most  of  them.  Nobody  knew  with  what  loom- 
ing shapes  she  fought  when  she  was  alone ;  for  there 
were  no  signs  of  the  strife  in  the  morning  when  she  ap- 
peared at  the  breakfast  table  and  kissed  her  Mary  Fox. 
It  was  at  that  hour  that  she  made  what  she  could  of  her 
friends  and  alliances.  She  saw  Ranald  nearly  every  day ; 
his  devotion  was  exemplary. 


THE  LAW  INTERVENES  343 

Vemour  and  his  companions  were  committed,  having 
reserved  their  defence.  No  bail  could  be  allowed.  She 
had  not  been  present,  by  his  desire,  or  command,  as  she 
chose  to  call  it — for  just  now  when  he  was  powerless  and 
shadowed  by  infamy,  her  loyalty  would  have  made  him 
out  a  despot,  if  he  had  not  taken  that  high  road  of  his 
own  accord.  But  he  had  written  to  her  the  night  before 
he  was  to  appear,  a  letter — not  long — which  shows 
clearly  that  arrogance  had  grown  upon  him  with  dis- 
grace. Terseness  was  his  vein,  and  a  repression  of  feel- 
ing which  might  well  have  seemed  cavalier  to  a  less  pliant 
mistress. 

"My  beloved,"  he  wrote,  "I  must  bid  you  farewell  for 
a  season  which  must  be  long,  and  shall  be  as  much  longer 
as  you  please.  They  will  condemn  me,  I  am  sure;  but 
that  is  little.  There  is  another  assize  in  which  I  am 
judge,  jury,  and  pi'isoner,  and  in  which  I  condemn  my- 
self. I  shall  ask  no  reprieve  here.  What  I  have  of  yours 
you  will  never  take  from  me;  but  what  you  have  left  I 
will  never  take  from  you  unless  you  bid  me.  Your 
lover." 

She  didn't  see  that  it  was  an  arrogant  letter,  that  the 
signature  in  particular  was  extremely  arrogant.  It  as- 
sumed entire  dominion,  not  only  of  her  heart  and  destin}', 
but  of  the  hearts  and  needs  of  all  men.  "Your  lover" ! 
And  she  with  a  dozen  lovers !  It  was  on  a  par  with  the 
Yo  el  Rey  of  Spanish  kings.  Yet  the  poor  girl  kissed  it 
often,  and  wore  it  faint  in  her  bosom. 


344  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

As  for  the  preliminaries,  Ranald  gave  her  an  account 
of  them.  Only  one  witness  had  been  called — a  ]\Ir. 
Banks,  a  critic  and  historian.  Mr.  Banks?  she  had 
echoed,  a  Mr.  Alojsius  Banks?  Yes,  that  was  the 
party — cavernous  kind  of  a  man  with  a  booming  voice, 
who  "deemed  it  to  have  been  his  painful  duty  to  be  pres- 
ent at  an  assembly  of  persons  who" — that  sort  of  a  man. 

She  said  that  she  knew  him.  He  was  the  first  English- 
man she  had  spoken  with  upon  landing,  two  years  ago. 
"I  have  met  him  since,  too.  He  used  to  come  to  the 
house.  I  asked  granny  to  send  him  a  card  for  a  party. 
I  believe  he  dined.     I  thought  he  liked  me." 

"He  likes  your  family,"  said  Ranald;  but  she  did  not 
catch  the  implication. 

Banks,  he  thought,  would  be  an  awkward  customer. 
There  was  this  about  his  testimony  which  he  did  not  tell 
her.  He  had  seen  Banks  come  into  court  between  two 
noble  lords.  The  Marquis  of  Badlcsmere  was  one — Lady 
Morfa's  brother — and  Lord  Barwise  the  other.  Lady 
Morfa's  son-in-law.  Now,  how  could  Banks  be  cross- 
examined  with  effect  if  you  had  to  leave  out  Lords 
Badlesmere  and  Barwise,  and  their  relations  with  the 
witness?  Banks  was  an  informer,  of  course — ^but  who 
were  his  principals  ?  Not  the  executive,  Ranald  thought ; 
he  was  not  of  their  camp.  Then  it  must  be  Caryll  House, 
acting  through  Lords  Badlesmere  and  Barwise ;  and,  in 
that  case,  the  defence  was  tongue-tied. 

The  defence  did  what  it  could.     Sir  Samuel  Romilly 


THE  LAW  INTERVENES  345 

had  been  retained,  and  Mr,  Brougham.  Then  darkness 
settled  down  upon  the  Brompton  lodgings,  and  Mary- 
Fox  lost  flesh,  anxious  for  her  friend. 

The  case  came  on  in  June — middle  of  June — and  made 
some  stir,  because,  in  spite  of  everything  Ranald  could 
do,  the  accessory  facts  became  known.  London  rang 
with  them :  the  newspapers,  the  ballad-sellers,  the  print- 
sellers,  all  the  "damned  tinker's  pack  of  curs"  were  on  to 
it,  and  noses  down,  tracked  the  scent.  It  made  for  the 
popularity  of  Vernour,  as  Ranald  owned;  it  settled  his 
private  affairs  ;  it  made  the  prospects  of  Mr.  Banks  less 
rosy.  liOrd  Sandgate  took  it  upon  himself  to  overlook 
the  briefs :  Mr.  Banks's  noble  friends  were  not  forgotten. 
He  did  more.  He  instructed  Cobbett,  he  instructed  the 
Examiner,  and  in  a  speech  which  he  made  in  the  City  on 
the  eve  of  the  trial  he  did  not  scruple  to  allude  to  the 
romantic  circumstances  under  which  this  accomplished 
young  man  and  hopeful  citizen  became  involved  in  a 
snare  of  public  malice  and  private  rancour  to  parallel 
which  he  must  needs  have  searched  the  Register  of  Let- 
tres  de  cachet,  happily  burned  with  their  partner  in  in- 
famy, the  Bastille.  The  town  caught  at  the  allusion 
and  wormed  out  the  romantic  circumstances.  Back  came 
the  butcher's  horse,  the  visit  to  Brook  Street ;  back  the 
"Lad  in  blue,"  and  the  "Lady  in  white"  ;  back  the  famous 
print,  "Cob-it,  my  hearty ! "  And  this  was  the  eve  of 
the  trial. 

She  watched  out  the  day  with  Mary  Fox.     She  did  not 


346  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

cry,  but  she  could  not  pretend  to  courage.  She  had  far 
rather  have  been  present:  the  thing  was  how  to  get 
through  the  hours.  At  twelve  o'clock  she  got  up  and 
went  for  a  walk ;  but  she  had  the  fancy  that  everybody 
was  looking  at  her  and  had  to  come  back.  It  is  the  fact 
that  she  had  seen  the  unhallowed  print  in  a  bookseller's 
window,  and  was  unnerved  by  it.  She  told  Mary  that  if 
somebody  had  slupped  her  on  the  cheek,  she  would  have 
got  her  courage  back.  And  so  it  happened:  somebody 
did. 

At  five,  or  half  after,  from  her  window  she  saw  Mr. 
Ranald  ride  up  to  the  door,  and  turned  to  wait  for  him, 
holding  her  heart. 

He  was  shown  in,  and  she  received  him  standing.  No 
greetings  passed. 

"You  will  need  your  courage,"  he  said. 

She  had  nothing  to  say. 

"They've  found  him  guilty,  the  hounds — ^but  we've 
got  old  Banks  into  the  mire."  Her  eyes  asked,  not  her 
lips. 

"The  thing  is  atrocious.  lEllenborough !  Lieking  his 
lips  before  he  began — like  a  wolfish  usher  with  his  cane. 
Miss  Chambre,  he  has  six  months  and  a  fine  of  £250." 

She  laughed  aloud.    "That!    Tons!" 

He  added,  "There's  more.  He's  to  stand  three  hours 
in  the  pillory,  and  put  all  England  to  shame.  By  God,  I 
wish  I  were  in  his  shoes !  We'd  bring  down  Northumber- 
land House  about  their  ears." 


THE  LAW  INTER\"ENES  347 

This  was  her  slap  on  the  face.  The  hot  blood  spread. 
"When  is  this  to  be?" 

"To-mon'ow  week,  at  Charing  Cross.  Oh,  the  ingenu- 
ity of  these  rascals !  The  House  rises  that  day — do  you 
see?  If  there's  a  row,  they  can  do  their  work  quietly — 
no  questions  asked — and  Burdett  comes  out,  too.  Oh, 
they've  worked  it  well.  A  row  there'll  be.  But  you 
must  be  out  of  this." 

"I  shall  go,  of  course,"  she  said;  and  he  could  have 
kissed  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 


PILLORY  AND   TUMBRIL 


T  ORD  RODONO  was  the  first  to  hear  of  it.  He  was 
■^"^in  the  lobby  of  the  House,  which  was  about  to  be  pro- 
rogued by  a  king's  speech,  and  had  just  divided.  In  these 
days  he  had  lived  very  much  to  himself,  unknown  to  his 
usual  haunts,  missed  alike  at  Brooks's,  Newmarket,  Crow- 
land  House.  He  held  by  the  House  of  Commons,  be- 
cause a  man  must  do  something,  and  because  he  felt  that 
he  must  stay  on,  somehow,  and  "see  the  end."  He  knew 
all  about  the  trial,  natural!}^,  and  the  end  of  it ;  he  raged 
over  the  scandal,  and  loathed  all  the  actors  in  it.  Hermia 
herself  was  cheapened  and  soiled — and  yet  "the  pity ! 
the  pity ! "  He  had  not  been  face  to  face  with  her  since 
that  evening  in  the  spring  when  she  was  brought  to 
Clarges  Street  by Oh,  damn  it,  the  thing  was  hide- 
ous! 

But  he  had  followed  everything  since  his  battle  with 
Vernour,  when  he  had  acknowledged  the  man's  integrity ; 
he  had  known  where  Hermia  was  living,  had  allowed 
Ranald  to  talk  of  her  and  her  prospects,  had  seen  Ranald 
getting  deeper  and  deeper  into  her  graces,  and  deeper 
and  deeper  into  need  of  them.  Bob  Ranald  was  "one  of 
us"  by  now.     Not  in  the  running — nobody  had  a  ghost 


PILLORY  AND  TUMBRIL  349 

of  a  chance  beside  that  accursed  butcher — but  running, 
apparently,  for  glory  and  honour — for  the  sake  of  her 
whom  he  called  the  "starriest  girl  in  all  England." 
Rodono  felt  that  he  could  have  been  Ranald's  best  man 
with  pride  and  thanksgiving ;  but  the  butcher — oh,  God ! 
No,  a  woman,  to  be  perfect  in  his  eyes,  must  be  unspotted 
from  the  world,  cloistered  and  approached  only  on  the 
knees — by  all  men  but  one. 

Some  such  thoughts  as  these — constant  with  him  at  the 
time — filled  him  now  as  he  ground  his  heel  into  the  pave- 
ment and  sunk  his  hands  deeper  into  his  breeches  pockets. 

"She's  mired  herself — she's  draggled — faugh!  what  a 
maid  fell  there !  Bewitched,  besotted,  beguiled,  betrayed ! 
What  a  high  head — and  down  it  droops !  What  a  bold 
flight — toppled,  shot  in  the  breast ! " 

A  man  came  through  the  lobbies,  rather  breathless, 
news  in  his  face.  He  was  triumphant  over  his  little  grain 
of  knowledge. 

Rodono  stood  alone,  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  the  new- 
comer caught  sight  of  him.  Something  was  wrong  with 
Tom,  who  cut  his  old  friends — now,  if  one  could  wake 
him  up !    One  might  try.     The  man  of  news  stopped. 

"I  say,  Tom,  my  boy,  there's  a  rare  row — Cobbett's  at 
it — and  the  Orator,  foaming  at  the  mouth." 

"Ah!"  said  Rodono,  "I  dare  say.  What  else?  Any- 
thing new?    Where's  your  row,  Cassonby?" 

"Charing  Cross — over  the  butcher's  carcase."  That 
pricked  him. 


350  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"What  do  you  mean — carcase?     They've  not ?" 

Mr.  Cassonby  tossed  his  whiskered  face.  "Good  Lord, 
no.  Otherwise.  They're  ready  to  break  up  the  pillory. 
She's  there,  you  know." 

"She.?"  What  eyes  Rodono  had!  Cold  steel!  Mr. 
Cassonby  knew  better  than  to  quote  the  ballads,  of  wliich 
he  had  a  stock.  ^ 

"Miss  Chambre's  there,"  he  said.  "Facing  'em  all. 
They  treat  her  like  a  queen." 

Tom  Rodono  was  certainly  in  Queer  Street,  as  Mr. 
Cassonby  informed  the  next  man  he  met.  "I  was  telling 
him  a  devilish  good  story — putting  it  devilish  well,  too — 
for  I  was  moved,  sir,  dammy,  I  was  moved — and  off  he 
goes  as  if  shot  from  a  gun.  I  saw  the  lady  come — she's 
been  there  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  Came  with  Bob 
Ranald — on  the  arm  of  Bob — and  a  veiled  friend.  Bob 
clears  the  road  as  he'd  clear  decks.  'Way  there,  my  lads, 
way  there,'  says  Bob,  humouring  the  fellows — you  know 
Bob !  So  she  comes  up  through  a  lane  of  them  as  if  she 
was  at  a  drawing-room — and  stands  underneath  the 
stage,  and  faces  'em  all.  And  Bob — httle  Bob — he  keeps 
a  clear  space  for  her — marches  up  and  down,  true 
quarter-deck  fashion.  Oh,  it  was  rare !  They  cry  three 
cheers  for  'Lady  Vernour,'  if  you  please.  Lady  Ver- 
nour !  They  marry  her  and  raise  her  to  the  peerage  all 
in  a  breath — that's  what  we're  coming  to  with  our 
blessed  Reform.  The  mob'll  make  peers  when  they've 
unmade  a  few.     You'll  see.  .    .    .  Lady  Vernour!  .    .    . 


PILLORY  AND  TUMBRLL  351 

Up  comes  old  Cobbett  on  horseback — they  give  him  room 
enough — and  rope  enough,  hey?  He  was  haranguing 
when  I  left.  But  she  was  rare — never  flinched,  never 
bhnked — just  did  what  she  had  to  do — and  stuck  to  it, 
sir — kept  on  with  it-" 

All  this  Tom  Rodono  had  missed;  but  going  down 
Westminster  Hall  he  could  not  miss  Lord  Sandgate,  who 
met  him  fuU. 

They  had  not  had  much  to  say  to  each  other  of  late, 
and  what  there  had  been  to  say  bore  no  reference  to  Miss 
Chambre's  affair.  Lord  Sandgate  was  by  nature  re- 
served, and  in  consequence  suspicious  of  reserve  in  other 
men's  dealings  with  him.  He  had  striven  hard  in  Ver- 
nour's  defence,  the  reader  knows,  and  had  made  so  bold 
as  to  drag  in  the  Caryll  House  faction  for  the  scarifying 
of  Mr.  Banks.  He  suspected,  not  without  reason,  that 
Rodono  did  not  praise  him  for  this,  and  kept  out  of  his 
colleague's  neighbourhood.  He  would  have  passed  him 
now  with  a  nod  had  not  something  in  the  fierce  striding 
of  the  man  caught  his  attention — something  fell  in  his 
purpose.    As  it  was,  he  stopped  him. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Tom  ?" 

Rodono  met  his  eye  without,  at  first,  seeming  to  recog- 
nise him ;  but  he,  too,  stopped,  and  a  dullish  hue  of  grey 
spread  over  his  face.    Rodono,  his  temper  lost,  had  a  devil. 

"You've  a  right  to  know,  I  suppose.  I'm  going  to 
her." 


352  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"Ha!    Where  is  she?" 

"At  your  pillory,  my  lord.  Where  you  drove  her 
to  be." 

"You  have  no  right  to  say  that — but  I  can't  quarrel 
with  you  now.     I  come  with  you." 

"You  can  do  as  you  please,"  said  Rodono.  Before  they 
had  reached  the  Horse  Guards,  they  could  hear  the  roar- 
ing of  the  mob  at  Charing  Cross. 

Squalid  splendour,  or  homely  strength,  whichever  you 
please,  have  always  marked  our  country,  which  can 
choose  to  rule  a  share  of  two  worlds  from  a  little 
brown  house  in  Downing  Street.  Squalor  beyond  de- 
scription vile  was  spread  broad  over  the  field  at  Char- 
ing Cross  where,  on  that  midsummer  day,  the  pageant 
of  an  offended  realm  was  displayed.  And  yet  the  scene 
as  viewed  from  afar  did  not  lack  in  force  of  character. 
From  the  entry  of  Whitehall  you  might  have  seen  it  en- 
acted in  dumb  show,  by  creatures  less  than  men ;  for  the 
ground  ran  up  from  Westminster,  and  no  staging,  no 
crucificial  gallows  could  make  headway  against  the  great 
mass  of  Northumberland  House.  So  our  two  gentlemen 
saw  it,  as  a  scene,  above  the  swarming  masses  of  men, 
between  tossing  flags,  caps  in  the  air,  flung-up  hands — 
dumbly  done  amidst  a  hubbub  of  hoarse  voices — waxing 
and  waning  like  a  heavy  sea — now  angry,  gathering,  and 
low — hooting  Castlereagh  or  Canning — and  anon  swell- 
ing into  a  roar  of  cheers  as  some  popular  name  was 


PILLORY  AND  TUMBRIL  353 

thrown  upon  the  waves.  Above  and  beyond  all  this,  upon 
a  wooden  platform  stood  the  crosses,  as  they  seemed ;  the 
ffm-shaped  gallows-trees  wherefrom  three  fixed  faces 
stared,  and  six  hands  drooped  helpless  and  unhappily 
white.  About  stood  the  sheriffs'  officers  and  the  con- 
stables— a  short  person  in  a  gown  and  cocked  hat  seemed 
to  be  reading  a  proclamation ;  and  at  the  further  fringe 
of  the  crowd  a  broad-shouldered  rider,  his  hat  waving  in 
his  hand,  was  roaring  himself  hoarse  in  rivalry.  The 
windows  of  the  ducal  house  were  full — ladies  were  there, 
and  gentlemen — some  in  uniform.  The  rest  was  sun- 
glare,  dust,  and  flung-up  arms ;  and  over  all  the  rising 
surge  of  noise,  now  angry,  now  wild  in  triumph. 

"Come,"  said  Lord  Sandgate,  "or  we  shall  be  too  late.'* 
Rodono  needed  no  prompting ;  he  was  in  front,  battling 
a  way  through.  The  outskirts  here  were  easy — dandies 
on  horseback  making  bets — traders  with  limp  ballads, 
wet  from  the  press,  chariots,  with  ladies  standing  on  the 
box-seat,  a  juggler  v-ith  a  white  rabbit,  pick-pockets, 
beggars,  and  harsh-faced  women,  draggle-tailed  and 
tousle-haired.  Beyond  this  fringe  Rodono  had  to  use 
his  shoulders,  then  his  voice.  He  descended  to  working 
with  his  own  name,  and  was  rewarded  with  a  "God  bless 
you,  my  lord,"  and  room  made.  He  was  not  known — but 
Lord  Sandgate  fared  better.  "Let  my  lord  go  through 
— ^the  people's  friend" — and  a  cheer  for  Reform. 

It  was  Sandgate  at  last  who  led  the  way ;  his  name 
carried  further  than  his  title — but  it  could  not  work 


354  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

miracles.  To  cleave  that  jammed  mass  of  sweating, 
roaring  humanity  he  must  use  a  sharper  weapon,  and 
not  scruple.  "Let  us  pass,  if  you  please — we  are  going 
to  the  lady.  We  are  friends — let  us  pass."  "Lady  Ver- 
nour!  God  bless  her  ladyship!  Make  room — make 
room ! "  Thus  they  made  their  way,  and  saw  the  stout 
Captain  Ranald  striding  up  and  down  the  cockpit  he  had 
cleared — saw  his  alert,  authoritative  eyes,  his  squared 
jaw,  his  weathered  cheeks  —  heard  his  comfortable 
"Steady  there,  my  lads,  and  keep  the  peace" — and  saw 
then  the  pale  girl,  in  her  white  dress,  a  veil  about  her 
brows,  standing  calm,  unfaltering,  and  steady-eyed — 
like  Mary  at  the  foot  of  the  cross. 

The  bitterness,  the  shamefulness,  the  gall !  Rodono 
went  white  to  the  lips.  He  turned  on  Sandgate  and 
smote  him  with  his  anger.  "You've  done  this,  you 
damned  procurer ;  you're  answerable  for  this ! "  His 
voice  was  a  sword. 

But  Lord  Sandgate  did  not  flinch.  "I'll  answer  you 
an3rwhere  but  here.  At  present  we've  a  dut}'^ — to  her. 
If  I  did,  I'm  proud  of  it."     He  hoped  that  he  was. 

She  made  no  sign  when  they  came  and  stood  one  on 
each  side  of  her  and  her  veiled  friend,  Mary  Fox ;  it 
seemed  that  she  had  got  beyond  the  stage  of  conscious- 
ness ;  as  though  all  her  nerves  and  faculties,  bent  before 
to  the  one  task  of  endurance,  were  now  set  hard;  as 
though  she  stood  because  she  was  stiffened.  No  one 
spoke.     Gradually  Rodono  also  stiffened,  and  lost  his 


PILLORY  AND  TUMBRIL  355 

burning  sense  of  wrong  done.  The  million-eyed,  surg- 
ing, hoarsely  murmuring  sea  tossed  before  him  unheeded ; 
he,  too,  was  learning  how  best  to  endure.  Of  them  all, 
the  one  person  who  kept  his  wits  about  him  was  the  fever- 
taut  Ranald. 

There  was  plainly  no  danger  to  be  feared  from  those 
in  front.  The  beauty,  the  stillness,  and  the  dignity  of 
the  young  girl  held  the  mob's  eyes  and  subdued  its 
tongue.  It  would  as  soon  have  intruded  upon  one 
dead.  But  the  pressure  from  behind  was  very  serious, 
and  from  the  sides  came  now  and  again  an  ugly  sound. 
On  the  steps  of  the  Golden  Cross  over  the  Strand,  speaker 
after  speaker  stood  up — shouted,  gesticulated,  pointed 
this  way  and  that,  all  in  dumb  show,  and  was  answered 
by  a  roar.  No  stones  were  thrown,  and  there  was,  on 
the  whole,  more  good-humoured  admiration  for  the  vic- 
tims than  rage  against  the  officers.  This  was  the  state 
of  affairs  at  half-past  four,  when  Rodono  had  been  with 
her  half  an  hour.  There  was  another  hour  to  go  yet; 
and  a  diversion  was  approaching  from  Cockspur  Street — 
a  four-horse  open  chariot  was  making  its  way  through 
the  crowd  at  the  back.  You  could  see  now  and  again 
the  fretful  crests  of  the  horses,  the  bobbing  white  hats 
of  postilions,  the  heads  of  the  two  footmen,  with  staves, 
swaying  behind;  and  above  all  this  the  coachman  in 
three-cornered  hat  and  wig.  You  could  tell  by  the  bend- 
ing of  his  shoulders  that  he  was  humouring  his  cattle, 
and  in  a  mortal  terror. 


356  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

The  crowd  divided — some  hats  went  off,  there  was  some 
cheering,  but  not  much.  Anyhow,  there  was  no  hooting, 
and  the  liveries  were  not  scarlet.  Rodono,  who  had 
thought  one  of  the  Princesses  might  have  blundered  into 
the  thing,  or  that  one,  in  particular,  might  have  chosen 
to  brazen  her  case  before  such  a  mob,  was  puzzled  and 
intrigued.  Was  it  a  rescue?  Was  it — could  it  be — ? 
By  the  Lord  Harry,  but  it  was !  The  carriage  came  on 
by  inches  at  a  time — and  now  he  could  see  the  single, 
nodding  occupant.  Her  dowager  ladyship  of  Morf a  was 
come  to  take  her  share,  and  his  heart  went  out  to  the  old, 
white  eagle-face.  "By  God,  the  old  wolf  will  fight  for 
her  cubs ! " 

The  Morfa  chariot  it  was  which  made  its  way  to  the 
foot  of  the  scaffold.  Even  so  Hermia  had  to  be  told. 
Ranald  told  her,  after  he  had  exchanged  a  word  or  two 
with  her  ladyship. 

The  old  Countess,  after  nodding  and  blinking  at  her 
girl — and  in  vain — had  beckoned  him  up.  "Get  her  in, 
Mr.  Ranald.     She  can't  stop  here." 

"I  fear,  my  lady,  that  she  means  it.    I  can't  force  her." 

"Ask  her  to  speak  to  me.    Let  this  be  stopped." 

"I'll  ask  her." 

He  spoke  to  her,  he  touched  her  on  the  arm.  "Your 
grandmother  wishes  to  speak  to  you.  She  has  come 
here."  Hermia  seemed  to  awake  out  of  her  dream  at 
that. 


PILLORY  AND  TUMBRIL  357 

"Where  is  grandmamma?" 

"Here — in  the  carriage." 

"Give  me  your  arm,  please."  He  took  her  up.  The 
mob  craned  and  surged,  then  swept  back  to  give  lier 
place. 

"Hermia,  child,"  said  her  ladyship,  "I  implore  you  to 
come  with  me." 

She  shook  her  head.  "Not  now,  granny — not  yet." 
The  old  lady  moistened  her  dry  lips. 

"I'm  an  old  woman,  my  dear — and  I  ask  it  of  you." 
Hermia  had  tears  in  her  eyes,  for  the  first  time  that  day. 

"You  know  that  I  would  come — if  I  could.  Oh,  granny, 
my  place  is  there ! " 

"We  cannot  argue — we  cannot  talk  of  these  things, 
my  child." 

"No,  no." 

"I  have  come  for  j^ou — I  have  brought  myself  so  far — 
and  I  am  an  old  woman." 

"Dearest  granny — if  I  could !  But — ah,  you  must  not 
ask  me  to  leave — David."  Shaking  head  and  blinking 
eyes — the  old  eagle  of  a  woman.  Old  as  she  was,  she 
whipped  herself  forward. 

"I  wish  to  say — I  have  come  to  say — that  I  knew  noth- 
ing of  this.    I  have  been  ill.    They  told  me  nothing." 

She  had  never  supposed  it — had  not  been  told  of 
Banks's  alliances.  Truth  and  candour  beamed  in  her 
eyes,  as  she  answered,  "No,  no,  granny.  I  am  sure — I 
am  quite  sure."    But  she  would  not  come — she  could  not. 


358  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Therefore,  Lady  Morfa  sat  it  out,  and  Hermia  went 
back  to  her  post. 

The  dragoons,  who  had  been  sent  for  at  half-past  three, 
came  down  Cockspur  Street,  and  were  first  seen  by  Ver- 
nour — the  midmost  of  the  cruciform  wretches,  staring 
there  dry-tongued  and  dizzy.  He  made  inarticulate 
noises  in  his  throat,  which  were  heard  by  a  constable, 
and,  oddly  enough,  attended  to.  The  man  was  a  good 
fellow. 

"'Are  you  ill,  Mr.  Vemour?    Are  you  ill,  sir?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Vernour.  "The  soldiers.  Take  her 
away.    Get  her  away." 

Ranald  saw  him  contorting  up  there,  and  went  to  him. 
No  one  stopped  him.  He  mounted  the  platform.  Ver- 
nour repeated  his  order.  "Tell  her  to  go — it  is  my 
desire.  There  is  terrible  work  coming."  Ranald  looked, 
and  saw  it  coming.  Plain  enough  to  his  practised  eye. 
The  people  had  faced  the  soldiery,  but  did  not  budge. 
Oaths  and  fierce  cries  from  the  midst  were  heard.  The 
officer  in  command  had  a  restive  horse;  here  were  the 
elements  of  something  grim. 

"Yes,  yes,  Vernour ;  she  ought  to  go — and  the  car- 
riage, too.  Good  God,  that  old  dragon  of  a  lady !  You 
desire  her — ^to  go  ?"  He  motioned  with  his  eyes — he  was 
nearly  done.  Ranald  went  down  and  spoke  to  Hermia, 
who  looked  up  in  alarm,  and  wavered,  swayed  about. 

She  recovered  in  a  moment,  and  wavered  no  more.  She 
went  up  the  ladder,  in  a  tense  silence  from  all  who  could 


PILLORY  AND  TUMBRIL  359 

see  her;  Ranald  followed.  She  had  a  little  phial  of 
brandy  in  her  hand,  and  went  to  him  with  it.  She  fed 
him,  drop  by  drop,  and  whispered  to  him — none  heard 
what  she  said.  She  succoured  the  other  two,  one  of 
whom,  a  mere  boy,  was  bending  at  the  knees. 

Ranald  spoke  to  the  sheriff.  "Take  these  men  down, 
sir.  There'll  be  murder  here."  The  sheriff  was  very 
much  perplexed. 

"I  can't  take  orders  from  you,  Mr.  Ranald." 

"You  get  them  straight  from  hell,  I  think.  How  much 
more  of  this  is  there  to  be .?" 

He  got  no  answer,  and  expected  none.  He  saw  that 
the  stones  were  flying — and  remarked  also  that  the  mur- 
mur was  lulled  so  that  you  could  hear  the  sharp  order 
of  the  officer,  and  the  rattle  of  arms,  as  the  men  obeyed. 
"By  God,  they're  going  to  fire ! " 

A  man  galloped  up  to  the  officer  and  spoke  to  him. 
Immediately  afterwards,  a  stone  hit  him  on  the  head — 
Ranald  saw  him  cower  sideways  and  clap  up  his  hand  to 
his  face. 

All  heads  were  turned  towards  the  coming  battle;  the 
crowd,  led  as  it  always  is  by  its  front,  was  pushing 
towards  the  dragoons.  Vernour  gasped  out  his  com- 
mand— "Go,  Hermia,  go ! " — two  of  the  constables  spoke 
to  her.  Orders  were  peremptory — she  must  leave  the 
platform.  She  turned — she  dared  not  look  at  her  lover, 
for  fear  of  his  terrible,  tortured  face  and  glazing  eyes — 
but  she  was  wild,  and  knew  not  what  she  was  doing.     She 


360  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

raised  her  face — a  pale,  tragic  face  it  was — and  kissed 
the  helpless  hand  near  her ;  and  then  suffered  herself  to 
be  led  away. 

She  was  not  a  moment  too  soon.  By  the  time  she  had 
been  put  into  the  carriage  with  Mary  Fox,  and  the 
horses  turned  to  Whitehall,  the  mob  was  surging  up  to 
meet  the  dragoons — the  scaffold  and  its  burden  were 
almost  deserted.  She  saw — it  was  the  last  thing  she 
saw — the  three  crosses  stand  up  against  Northumber- 
land House,  as  it  were  in  a  desert  place ;  and  then  she 
fainted.  She  did  not  hear  the  volley  which  ended  the 
day's  work.  Ranald  had  to  tell  her  of  that,  and  said 
that  he  had  never  guessed  before  what  a  coward  he  was. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

IN  WHICH  THE  HON.   CAPTAIN   RANALD   EPILOGISES 

CLOSE  with  what  scattered  notes  I  have  left,  to  ac- 
count as  best  I  can  for  the  remaining  maiden  years  of 
Miss  Chambre's  Hfe.  Her  story,  however,  so  far  as  my 
present  purposes  are  concerned,  was  virtually  told  with 
the  shot  which  ended  Vemour's  earthly  course.  She  lived 
them,  I  understand,  mainly,  if  not  altogether,  in  the 
country :  at  Wrensham,  whither  the  Dowager  Lad}'  jNIorf  a 
retreated  before  the  advance  of  the  new  Countess;  in 
Ireland,  with  the  George  Foxes ;  rarely  at  Petersham ; 
and,  for  one  visit  certainly,  in  the  west  of  Scotland,  where 
Lord  and  Lady  Clanranald  occupied  a  scarred  fortalice 
■ — "as  poor  as  rats  and  as  keen  as  rats-bane,"  was  the 
description  of  his  parents  given  her  by  Captain  Ranald, 
heir  of  the  ragged  demesne.  "A  pair  of  old  ravens," 
some  other  wag  termed  them,  "sitting  on  a  scaur,  looking 
sideways  for  death."  They  were  very  kind  to  the  girl, 
and  liked  her.  They  reported  her  docile  and  affectionate. 
Docile  and  affectionate ! — Hermia  Mary  !  This  must 
have  been,  the  reader  sees,  a  long  time  after  her  fiery 
ordeal.  It  was,  in  fact,  nearly  three  years  afterwards, 
when  Bob  Ranald's  hopes  were  high,  and  the  wounded 
amazon  more  resigned  to  her  lot. 


2Q2  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

Poor  young  Vemour,  shot  by  a  chance  ball  of  that  vol- 
ley which  she  had  not  heard,  was  forgotten  by  the  world 
which  had  been  ready  to  make  much  of  him,  given  a 
favouring  star.  There  had  been  an  inquest,  at  which 
Ranald  made  a  scene,  and  did  his  best  to  get  committed ; 
there  had  been  regrets  from  the  Home  Office,  and  a  talk 
of  prosecution — but  none  followed.  The  law  officers 
were  clear  on  the  points ;  it  could  not  be  denied  that  the 
Riot  Act  had  been  read,  stones  thrown,  the  cheek  of  a 
sheriff  of  Middlesex  cut  open.  Besides,  who  did  the 
deed?  How  can  you  indict  a  squadron?  Was  it  to  be 
supposed  that  any  hand  had  been  murderously,  deliber- 
ately levelled  at  a  man  tied  in  the  pillory  ?  Nothing  was 
done ;  as  Ranald  had  said,  the  day  had  been  well  chosen. 
Parliament  was  up  that  day ;  Sir  Francis  was  enlarged ; 
within  a  week  Mr.  Cobbett  was  standing  to  answer  a 
charge  of  libel,  and  within  three  weeks  he  was  in  gaol. 
These  were  timely  diversions,  and  confounded  the  pop- 
ular party.  Vernour  was  no  longer  a  handle  for  Lord 
Sandgate's  battle-axe.  Lord  Sandgate,  indeed,  dropped 
him.  Better  for  his  uses  an  imprisoned  Cobbett  than  a 
dead  Vernour. 

But  my  Lord  Sandgate  could  not  so  easily  drop  Tom 
Rodono,  whose  affair  with  him  marks  the  end  of  a  pain- 
ful scandal.  It  had  a  paragraph  in  The  Morning  Post, 
and  half  a  column  in  the  Examiner.  The  Morning 
Chronicle,  which  was  the  Whig  organ,  did  not  notice  it 
at  all.     The  gentlemen  met  on  Wimbledon  Common,  on 


CAPTAIN  RANALD  SUMS  UP  363 

the  morning  of  that  day  on  which  they  buried  Vernour ; 
Lord  Morfa  was  Rodono's  second.  They  exchanged  a 
shot  apiece,  and  Sandgate  fired  first — but  wide.  Rodono 
hit  him  in  the  shoulder,  and,  it  is  thought,  nicked  the 
bone.  However,  both  combatants  rode  off  the  ground, 
after  expressing  themselves  in  becoming  terms. 

After  the  dismal  rites  were  done,  she  fell  into  a  state  of 
listlessness  and  apathy.  She  did  not  cry  (not  being  of 
the  sort  that  gets  relief  that  blessed  way),  and  was  per- 
fectly amiable,  but  she  was  without  a  will  of  her  own — 
except  on  one  point,  and  that  an  odd  one.  Nothing  could 
tempt  her  to  leave  her  grandmother  for  long,  not  even 
the  wooing  of  JNIary  Fox,  of  green  Kilbride,  and  the 
sweet,  wet  gales  of  Roscommon ;  she  who  had  so  stoutly 
played  the  rebel  was  now  an  ardent  Loyalist.  True,  the 
fierce  old  woman  was  somewhat  broken;  true  that  she 
quailed  before  the  brown-eyed  little  Cotmtess  Harriet  and 
her  array.  "Moon-struck,"  they  said,  the  stern  old 
warrior ;  and  it's  certain  that  she  never  met  her  daughter- 
in-law  in  this  world.  So  that  ft  may  have  been  pity  which 
touched  the  rebel  heart — and,  if  so,  that's  to  its  credit ; 
but  I  believe  that  it  was  admiration.  Steel  fires  steel.  I 
believe  that  it  was  the  spectacle  of  the  nodding  old  eagle 
enduring  the  shame  of  London — the  gaping,  the  nudg- 
ing, the  tongues  in  the  cheeks — which  spoke  to  her,  as 
it  were,  with  a  voice :  Here  is  a  franchise  worthy  of  your 
esteem,  and  here  a  pride  above  your  own.  Bend  youjr 
knee,  Norman. 


364<  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

The  Hon.  Captain  Ranald,  while  pursuing  his  political 
adventures,  kept  an  eye  open  to  what  chances  he  might 
have  of  possessing  his  bruised  goddess.  He  knew  that 
they  could  only  improve  with  time;  but  he  intended  to 
have  her,  if  waiting  patiently  could  help  him.  It  was 
her  spirit  he  loved,  he  told  himself — the  spirit  she  had 
once  had — though  her  beauty,  to  his  mind,  was  enhanced 
by  the  pale  and  pensive  cast  it  wore.  With  these  things 
won,  he  vowed  that  he  should  be  content.  "She'll  never 
love  me,  I  know,"  he  told  his  friend  ClifFe  Jenyns,  the 
traveller  and  poet.  "She's  the  kind  that  gives  once,  and 
gives  all.     If  I  get  her,  it  will  be  like  marrying  a  nun." 

"Not  it,  my  boy,"  said  the  genial  Cliffe,  "if  you  are  the 
man  I  believe  you."  But  Ranald  shook  his  head.  "I'm 
not  romantic,  but  I  can  see  the  vestal  in  her.  God  bless 
you,  why  do  you  suppose  she  tumbled  into  that  young 
man's  arms?" 

"Fine  fellow,  you  tell  me,  fine  figure  of  a  young  man. 
Had  parts — spoke  well,  could  think — is  that  what  you 
mean  ?" 

Ranald  snapped  his  fingers.  "Pooh,  sir,  nothing  of  the 
,  sort !  His  greatest  chance  with  her  was  that  she  knew 
nothing  about  him.  It  was  all  gossamer-web  of  her  own 
spinning.  The  business  was  done  on  that  visit  of  hers 
to  Brook  Street — you  remember,  I  told  you  about  that 
at  the  time — to  apologise.  Well,  she  was  in  a  great 
fright,  and  no  wonder.  He  got  the  benefit  of  that — 
don't  you  see?    She  was  there  to  sing  small,  and  she  be- 


CAPTAIN  RANALD  SUMS  UP  365 

came  small ;  the  smaller  ^he,  the  greater  he.  As  she 
stooped,  he  towered  up,  higher  and  higher.  She  pro- 
jected him  as  a  god,  and  god  he  remained  to  the  end  of 
the  chapter.  All  a  generous  figment  of  her  brain — I'm 
sure  of  it.    .    .    . 

"Mind  you,  I  knew  Vernour  well,  and  admired  him. 
He  had  character — a  quiet  force ;  and  it  did  so  happen 
that  he  could  make  use  of  it.  Politics !  they  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  matter.  She  knew  no  politics  except  by 
hearsay ;  if  she  had  any  leanings  herself,  it  was  towards 
aristocracy.  She  was  one  to  the  tips  of  her  finger-nails. 
No;  he  struck  her  imagination,  and  she  chose — as 
queens  used  to  choose.  As  for  him — damn  it,  he  was  a 
male." 

Cliffe  Jenyns  laughed.  "What  are  you.  Bob,  for  in- 
stance— politician  or  male?" 

"I  don't  say.  It's  not  come  to  that — and  I  suppose 
I'm  a  gentleman.  What  I  mean  is  this — that  there's  a 
field  which  politics  can't  touch,  a  fund  in  this  old  world 
which  will  outlive  science  and  all  our  blessed  systems.  I 
agree  with  Tom  Paine,  of  course — as  far  as  he  goes.  If 
a  man  is  not  finer  than  a  king,  God  help  the  monarch^' ; 
and  if  he  is,  why,  God  will  stand  aside.  So  down  goes 
the  monarchy  at  the  proper  time.  But  there's  a  Right  of 
Man  unconsidered  by  Tom ;  and  I  say  that  she  lent  her- 
self to  the  proving  of  it.  She  submitted,  she  stooped  to 
be  the.  test  case.     And,  by  God,  she  proved  it." 

"Do  you  mean  that  the  eternal  male ?" 


366  THE  STOOPING  LADY 

"I  do.  He  was  no  more  than  that  essentially — splendid 
brawn.  But  she  was  the  Divinity  who  submitted  to  a 
man — for  us  men.  Democracy  in  practice !  She  took  us 
a  step  beyond  the  Rights  of  Man,  which  we're  all  prating 
about,  to  the  Rights  of  Nature,  which  will  outlast  all 
politics  and  politii:ians — when  she,  the  noble,  free-moving 
creature,  in  her  own  way,  worked  out  the  Right  of  Man — 
of  any  man  who  is  one — to  choose  his  mate.  Other 
things  being  equal — as  they  were  here — no  caste  can 
stand  out  against  that.  Had  she  been  an  archduchess,  it 
would  have  made  no  difference." 

"Your  course  is  clear,"  said  Jenyns.  "Advance,  man, 
and  choose." 

"Not  now.  She  gave  him  all — as  they  do,  my  friend, 
as  they  do — and  once  for  all.  I  shall  get  a  shell,  but  I 
shall  take  it." 

He  stared  at  the  fire,  then  broke  out  again.  "She's  the 
sort  that  must  give,  that  thrives  only  so.  She  has 
breasts ;  she  must  feed  the  hungry.  She  stoops  from 
her  high  seat  and  sheds  heaven  upon  us ;  and  it's  not 
one  in  ten  thousand  that  sees  the  condescension,  the 
magnanimity,  the  extraordinary  bounty.  The  Stooping 
Lady !  The  Stooping  Lady !  That's  what  I  call  her. 
.  .  ..  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Cliff e ;  she'd  have  me  to- 
morrow if  she  thought  I  w»as  broken.'* 

He  was  right  there. 

THE    END. 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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